


Because He Was Alone

by BringMeBackToEarth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Even More Fluff, Fluff, Gen, More of a Sherlock-centered fic., Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 58
Words: 233,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BringMeBackToEarth/pseuds/BringMeBackToEarth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parentlock! When Sherlock and John are investigating a mystery that involves several abductions from orphanages, what will happen when Sherlock meets a tiny boy who brings out feelings in him he didn't even know he had... Is Sherlock capable of being a father...? Lots of fluff and cuteness, but there are mild mentions of child abuse. Rated T just in case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John, Don't Say Anything

Lestrade led the two men up the steps to the large, dark-looking building. He stopped just in front of the door and turned back to look at the two men following closely behind. He began talking to the taller one.

"Now, Sherlock, please try to remember –"

"Yes, yes, I know," Sherlock cut him off. "No being rude to the employees, and no frightening the children; I've already been given this talk by John. Now can we please go in?"

The other man, John, rolled his eyes as the Detective Inspector continued through the large double doors into the orphanage.

Inside was dark, stuffy, and had a distinctive "must" smell to it. The three men began walking down a long hallway, passing several large rooms along the way. Sherlock quickly peered into each one as they swiftly walked past. The men were quickly approaching several sets of desks at the end of the hall grey hall, Sherlock making assessments the whole way, but all three men thinking of the situation at hand.

Last week, Greg Lestrade had called Sherlock with a case; children were being abducted from orphanages all across England, but no bodies had been found, leading everyone to suspect the perpetrator was keeping the children. Sherlock agreed, and since he had two more children had been abducted. This would mean five children, ages two, four, eight, ten, and twelve, in order of abduction.

And, as if the case wasn't disturbing enough on its own, as Sherlock, John, and Lestrade began visiting orphanages, they discovered most of them couldn't even give a description of the children that had been abducted, showing just how little care was put into these orphanages, thus making inferences on the abduction very difficult.

To John and Greg, this discovery was just disturbing and horribly sad, but to Sherlock it was a clue: The kidnapper is taking children from orphanages where he knows they will be easy to snatch away, and where they won't be easily missed.

The men were almost to the desks where several women sat playing with their phones. The sounds of children's voices could be heard in the distance.

They came to the last room, and, again, Sherlock peered in. In the others there had been two things: either emptiness, or several children playing, talking, or walking around.

This last room, though, appeared empty, so Sherlock gave a slight nod of his head, and continued along. But just as he was about to walk up to John and Lestrade, a small sound caused him to turn back towards the supposedly empty room. This time, though, he walked in.

In a corner, which had been originally obscured from view, sat a very young, very small boy with dark auburn hair, which was wildly curly. He sat on the ground, his little cubby legs splayed out in front of him. In between his two legs was a piece of paper, onto which the young boy was haphazardly scribbling something with a broken, red crayon, which had created the noise Sherlock had heard earlier. The boy's bottom lip protruded out slightly, and his eyebrows were drawn together; he looked to be concentrating on what he was scribbling on the paper between his legs. Sherlock thought he couldn't have been more than 16 months old.

At the sound of Sherlock entering the room, though, the tiny boy quickly stopped what he was doing and looked up at Sherlock with huge, dark, green-blue eyes, which were oddly striking, Sherlock noted.

The two stared at each other for a moment, Sherlock peering at the young boy with a rather soft look on his face. He made a step towards the little boy. The child let out a small squeak, his eyes filling with fear. He turned around and desperately tried to crawl away from Sherlock, only to be met with a grey, dirty wall. The tiny child began to panic, and tears began streaming down his face as hurriedly tried to get away from Sherlock.

Sherlock had frozen immediately, as soon as the child had tried to scurry away from him. His eyebrows worriedly pulled together. When the child started to cry, though, he became truly worried, and didn't know what to do.

"Ssshh, shhh, it's alright, it's okay," he began whispering to the child, but to no avail. The child had now reached the wall, and was trying as hard as he could to stand up.

Sherlock knew it would upset the young boy more, but he walked towards they tiny figure, still whispering softly to him, took note of the way the young boy flinched when he reached for him, and plucked him from his position on the ground.

Initially the boy desperately tried to protest by flailing his little limbs this way and that, but when the detective clutched the boy to his chest, his large hand rubbing soothing circles on the child's back, he stopped protesting. Instead, the child thrust his head into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, sobbing, tears staining the detective's jacket.

Though he would never admit it, the detective felt extremely shaken by what he had just witnessed. He held the little boy close to his chest, trying to calm him down. Sherlock's mind was thinking quickly about what he had just seen. He estimated the boy was probably sixteen months old, if not younger. But judging by the fact that he was already beginning to draw, his motor skills were advanced. His clothes were dirty and tattered, and his face was covered with dirt. Neglected because he's younger, and can't do these things for himself, Sherlock noted. Even though the child had a significant amount of baby fat, which made his face seem full, he was painfully thin, making him look even more fragile than his already-tiny form would. Sherlock was also positive the crying boy in his arms had been abused, and rather badly judging by the reaction the child had to him.

As he was thinking about this realization, anger boiled in Sherlock's veins, spreading throughout his body, and he subconsciously tightened his grip on the little boy. He couldn't explain why he was feeling this much anger about a tiny, little human that he didn't even know, but he felt oddly protective of the little boy whose sobbing had stopped and was now just little sniffles. His head was still snuggled tightly into the crook of Sherlock's neck, though.

"Shh, see," Sherlock murmured, "it's all right… You're all right." He let go of the small boy's back ever so slightly as if to give him reassurance that it was okay to look up. Cautiously, still with a little fear in his eyes, the auburn-haired boy pulled his tear-stained face away from the detective's soft coat. He looked up at the man with puffy eyes.

Sherlock gave a warm smile at the boy in an attempt to reassure the child that he was not going to hurt him.

After staring at Sherlock for several more moments, the small boy's eyelids began to droop. He pulled his chubby little arms away from his sides, and tiredly reached them up at the detective, placing one hand on the detective's shoulder, the other just at the base of Sherlock's neck. His eyes fluttered closed, leaning his weight into Sherlock arms, where he fell asleep, his tiny body rising and falling with each deep breath.

Has not slept for a significant while, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock stared quietly down at the sleeping child in his arms, who now looked completely peaceful.

John and Lestrade hadn't really noticed Sherlock's absence until they both noted that there hadn't been any insults made towards the women they had been talking to. John turned around and realized Sherlock was not there.

As if on cue, Sherlock walked out of the room closest to Lestrade and John. John was going to say something terribly sarcastic when he noticed the incredibly small being in Sherlock's arms. John's mouth hung open.

"John, don't say anything," began Sherlock, "but I'm taking this child home with me today."


	2. Hamish

"John, don't say anything," began Sherlock, "but I'm taking this child home with me today."

Lestrade turned around, a very confused look on his face at Sherlock's last comment. But upon turning around, and seeing the baby in his arms, Lestrade's mouth, too, hung open.

"What?" John began, tripping over his own words. "No, Sherlo— It's—You can't just—" John stuttered.

"John, do please get it out," Sherlock sighed.

"N-no!" John practically squeaked.

"John, I told you not to say anything," Sherlock scolded. "And please be quiet, he's sleeping." Sherlock made a gesture with his head to the sleeping figure in his arms.

Sherlock walked between the two men who were staring wide-eyed as the detective carried on as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock approached the woman at the first desk who had, finally, looked away from her phone. She looked at Sherlock and was met with an icily cold smile, which seemed incredibly menacing. He turned his head just slightly in the direction of John and Lestrade behind him, who were both still at a loss for words.

"John, Lestrade, could you please step aside for a moment? I'll be right out, I promise, I just need to have a talk with this young woman here. Besides, I know already that this orphanage is going to be like all the others; there will be no information on the twelve-year old that was abducted, so we're wasting our time anyway." Sherlock carefully took his hand that had previously been resting on the boy's back and used it to pull out his phone from his pocket. He pressed a number and held it up to his ear.

He waited for the person to pick up, then, "Hello, Mycroft— Yes I am in fact calling you. Wonderful observation skills, as usual, brother." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Listen, Mycroft, I need your help... Yes… Yes… Well—" Sherlock turned around and realized John and Lestrade had not yet left.

"Go on, I said I'd be out soon," Sherlock said calmly. Still shocked, John and Lestrade began to sluggishly make their way back down the hallway they had just entered through moments ago until they were back outside.

The two had waited in silence for several minutes, though it seemed much longer, when Sherlock finally emerged from the orphanage, his hand now back to cradling the still-sleeping child, and a smug smile on his face.

"Well," began Lestrade, "I guess he couldn't have done too much damage; the kid's still asleep." John let out a dark chuckle as he walked up to Sherlock, determination in his step.

"Sherlock," he began in a dangerous tone.

"I know, John," Sherlock said, almost guiltily. The army doctor stopped, his rant now forgotten, as she saw the almost sad look in the detective's eyes. Sherlock continued, "but I couldn't leave him in there." Sherlock's eyes fell to the sleeping child in his arms. "I just couldn't…"

John spoke again, his voice much more soft this time, though. "Of course you could have, Sherlock. He would have been just fine there. I mean look at him. He's an adorable kid; I'm surprised he hasn't been adopted yet! He'll be better of with a family who can care for him properly, rather than us—" The doctor stopped immediately realizing what it sounded like he had just said. The hurt on Sherlock's face and in his eyes were evident.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John, this little boy has been abused repeatedly, he hasn't been fed in who knows how long—just look at him! He's been neglected his whole life! Do you think I wouldn't be able to take good care of him, John? Is that it? Because of the way I am? Did it ever occur to you why I am the way I am? Of course it hasn't, because if it had, you would understand why I couldn't leave him in there!" Sherlock's face was now flushed slightly. "I didn't take him because he was thin, or dirty, or neglected… I took him because he was alone, John! Because he was alone… I was alone all of my childhood, and do you see how I turned out? That's why I can't leave him in there, John because if I do, his whole childhood will be ruined! And then he'll end up…" Sherlock's anger had subsided and was now replaced with mild sadness. "I couldn't leave him, John…"

Sherlock's eyes drifted again to the sleeping child in his arms. Lestrade a few feet away, awkwardly staring at the ground, as John looked at his flat-mate with utter guilt. He'd never known that about Sherlock's childhood. Although, admittedly, that did explain a lot. He looked at the innocent child in Sherlock's arms, and suddenly felt totally at ease with the whole situation, though he didn't understand why.

"Okay," he said. Sherlock looked back at John with hopeful eyes.

"You mean, you're okay with this?" he gestured down to the child.

John hesitated, but then answered strongly, "Yes. Let's take him home." He turned to try and hail a cab.

"Hamish."

"What?" John asked, confused. He turned back to Sherlock.

"Hamish," Sherlock answered. "His name is Hamish," he stated with a small smile. John couldn't help but smile, too.

"And you didn't just name him that, did you?" John asked somewhat incredulously. Sherlock shook his head 'no.'

"Hmm," John pondered, "It does make one believe in something, doesn't it?" he said with a smile.


	3. Home

"Just here, please," John told the cabbie.

"Wait, where are you going? We aren't home yet," Sherlock asked as John began to get out of the now-stopped cab, an alarmed look on his face.

"Sherlock," John said as if he was a small child, "you're taking care of a baby. We have to get things like food, nappies, a cot, and baby clothes and—the list goes on and on. Soo," John drawled," I'm going to the store to get everything we'll need, and you're going home to take care of Hamish until I get back."

"But John, what if I do something wrong? What if I hurt him, or he starts crying or—"

"Sherlock! You're going to be just fine. Besides, I'm still working at surgery, so either way you're going to be home alone with him when I go to work. This will be just like that." He gave Sherlock a reassuring look, though he still looked terribly nervous. John smiled. "You'll be all right. I promise. I'll be back before you know it," he finished as he stepped out of the cab, leaving Sherlock alone with Hamish, who was still fast asleep on his chest.

The cabbie pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock carefully opened the door, trying not to jostle the sleeping baby in his arms, and stepped out. He walked up the steps, and unlocked the door, entering the ever-welcoming flat.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called out as quietly as he could. But there was no response. Eyebrows pulled together, he curiously walked the short length of the hallway to Mrs. Hudson's flat, and peered in. The lights were out.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed to himself, "that's right, Mrs. Hudson is still away on holiday." Shrugging slightly, he headed up to the flat he and John shared. He made to walk towards his bedroom so as to lay Hamish on the bed, but just as he reached his door, the baby stirred in his arms, letting out a large yawn, the sound of which made Sherlock smile.

The little boy sleepily opened his eyes and peered up at Sherlock, who, in turn, gave him a warm smile. Hamish's lips turned upward in what the detective was sure was almost a smile. The little boy turned his head around to look to his left, and he physically started in Sherlock's arms, startling the detective, in turn. The little boy's eyes frantically began to look at the new, colorful surroundings of the flat, his eyes darting this way, and that, his little chest heaving as his breath became very quick.

Sherlock, realizing that Hamish was panicking at his new, surroundings, hurriedly tried to calm the boy down by rubbing his back and telling him, "No, no, Hamish it's all right, you're safe, you're safe."

Upon hearing his name, Hamish turned towards Sherlock again, tears brimming in his green eyes.

In an effort to show Hamish that although his surroundings were new, they weren't scary or dangerous, Sherlock hurried over to the wall with the yellow smiley face drawn on it.

Very carefully and slowly, Sherlock moved Hamish so he was sitting on his almost-non-existent-hip, and reached for his tiny left hand, which was resting on the hand the detective had firmly wrapped around the little boy's middle.

Hamish flinched slightly as Sherlock's hand moved towards him, though he still allowed the detective to grab his own. Tears were threatening to fall.

Carefully, Sherlock moved closer to the wall, moving Hamish's hand closer and closer. When they were just inches away from the patterned wall, the little boy began to panic again and tried to pull his chubby little hand away.

"It's all right, Hamish. Nothing's going to happen." He gave Hamish a reassuring smile, and continued moving their hands closer.

Hamish gasped slightly when his small hand felt the surface of the smooth wall, but he didn't pull away this time. Instead, he began to move his hand along the surface, which was so different from the rough, grey e walls he was used to at the orphanage. His eyes widened with newfound wonder as he continued to move his small hand up and down.

"That's a wall, Hamish," Sherlock said looking down at the little child's face with a smile. He pulled the little boy's hand away and moved over to the window that faced the street below. Slowly, he moved Hamish's chubby hand to it.

"This is a window. You look out of it, and you can see things happening outside. I'm afraid we only have a view of a street and some cars, though." He smiled as the little boy began sliding his chubby hand up and down, his eyes, again, widening in wonder.

"Look out, Hamish," said Sherlock. He leaned their bodies closer to the window, trying to prompt the little boy to look down and out. Eventually, Hamish did, and when he saw the street so far below, and the cars hurrying by, he gasped and quickly turned away, burying his face in the detective's shirt.

"No, no, no, you can't fall out, I promise. See?" The detective leaned against the window, trying to show Hamish that they were both safely inside. As a result, the little boy just pushed harder against Sherlock's chest, trying to distance himself even further from the window.

"Hamish, look." Upon hearing his name, Hamish very slow turned his face out of the detective's shirt, and peered out the window, fear and tears still in his eyes. He looked at Sherlock's shoulder which was leaning heavily against the window, and, seeing how both of them were still safely inside, reached his little hand out again, and began touching the window, a small smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock saw the smile, and took it as encouragement to go on, and began running around the room, showing Hamish everything he could, and explaining what it was to him. He showed him the skull, the kitchen table, the refrigerator, how the cabinets opened and shut, how the curtains on the window moved, the feeling of his and John's chair, and the funny sound the keys on John's laptop made when they were clicked. Sherlock was becoming excited at the prospect of being able to fill Hamish's mind with information and being able to teach him everything. The prospect of having a mind, so barely touched by the world, filled Sherlock with a feeling of pride and happiness he knew he had never felt before.

Upon hearing each new item, Hamish began repeating the words back to Sherlock, which received much encouragement, though most times, he just ended up making little baby noises and gurgles.

Sherlock was sure the little boy's growth had been stunted by his time spent in the orphanage, but he still felt a swell of pride every time Hamish tried to pronounce something.

After Sherlock had shown the little boy everything he could think of around the flat, he was practically dancing around with Hamish in his hands, the little boy squealing with happiness.

Sherlock fell onto the couch, pulling a still-squealing Hamish onto his chest. He chuckled lightly as he saw the little boy smile widely up at him. Slowly, the detective sat up, propping himself up with a pillow behind his back. The little boy was settled on his hips, his back leaning against Sherlock's folded legs.

Hamish stared up at the detective, the smile slowly leaving his face to be replaced by one of concentration. Sherlock looked back at him, a small smile playing on his lips. He took a good moment to really look at Hamish, and noticed how, to some, he could look like he actually was Sherlock's biological son. Hamish's hair was very similar to Sherlock's, though his wasn't quite black like Sherlock's was, but both had equally curly hair. Even with his baby fat, you could tell he was going to have rather prominent cheekbones, much like Sherlock already has. And though his eyes were not the same steele-grey color as the detective's, they had that same piercing look Sherlock's always had.

The detective was so lost in his observations; he didn't notice Hamish trying to stand up on his stomach. Pulling himself away from his thoughts, Sherlock moved his hands under the little boy's armpits, and gently lifted him up so he was no longer leaning back against his legs, but was now standing on his chest.

With a determined look on his face, Hamish stuck out his bottom lip, all the while looking at Sherlock, and moved closer to the detective's face. Tentatively, he reached one hand out, placing his chubby fingers on Sherlock's sharp cheekbone.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as the little boy touched his face, the small fingers moving ever so slightly against his skin. A warmth flooded Sherlock's chest, something he'd never experienced before. He looked into Hamish's deep green eyes, who were still focused on Sherlock's cheek. Carefully, the little boy moved his other hand to Sherlock's other cheekbone, and used the detective's face to gently pull himself into a standing position so the two were eye-to-eye. The little boy flattened his hands against Sherlock's cheeks and then looked into his eyes questioningly.

Finding his voice again, Sherlock whispered, "What, Hamish?"

Hamish made some sort of humming sound in response, then, in replace of asking a question, took his right hand and pointed at Sherlock, a questioning look on his face. He then placed his little fingers back on the detective's face, his tiny fingernails scratching at the skin ever so slightly.

Finally, Sherlock understood what Hamish wanted; he had been telling Hamish the names of everything else around the flat, and now the little boy wanted to know what he was called. Still feeling the small hands on his face, Sherlock started to answer, "Sher—,"but then realized that, technically, to Hamish, he wasn't Sherlock. To Hamish, he was now his father.

At this realization Sherlock froze, just now understanding the gravity of what he had done by adopting Hamish. A small smile graced his lips before he whispered to Hamish, "I'm Daddy."

Upon hearing this, Hamish's large smile returned, and he once again tried to repeat what Sherlock had just said.

"Dddd… Ddduuu…. Daaaa!" He shouted triumphantly. "Da'! Da'!" he squealed. Realizing that Hamish had almost said 'daddy,' Sherlock sat up quickly, clutching Hamish to his chest, a large smile spreading on his face. "Well done, Hamish! Oh! Very, very good job!" The little boy smiled widely at the detective, his eyes bright with excitement.

Still smiling, Hamish leaned forward, resting his head against the detective's chest.

The two sat like that, curled up on the couch, just enjoying each other's company. They were interrupted, though, by the sound of John bustling through the door downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say, I know that so far, this has been a tiny bit unrealistic, but that's okay! Creative license, right? Anyways, just wanted to apologize for being slightly unrealistic in the beginning, buuut I hope you liked in anyways.
> 
> Also, there's more fluff in this chapter, because I just love it!
> 
> Thanks readers! =)


	4. Food, Bed, Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! I would like to apologize for all the writing mistakes in these, so please excuse! =) Thanks! Maybe I should read these before I post them…

Hamish and Sherlock were startled by the sound of John opening the door. The detective relaxed instantly, but little Hamish tensed in his father's arms and fearfully looked towards the stairs John was now walking up, hands full of bags.

"Nah, don't need your help at all, Sherlock, thanks for offering, though," the doctor huffed sarcastically.

"You're welcome," Sherlock chuckled in reply, standing up, putting Hamish on his hip, and crossing over to his flat mate.

"Here, just a moment, I've got to go get the cot and the rest of the bags," John muttered as he began to job back down the stairs to get the rest of the shopping.

Bouncing Hamish slightly on his hip, Sherlock walked over to one of the bags and opened it. Inside was a blue baby grow with trains covering it. The detective rolled his eyes, but looked back at his son and the tattered clothes he was wearing, and decided trains on a onesie were perfectly fine. He plucked the garment out of the plastic bag, quickly tore the tags off, snatched a nappy and wipes, and then walked back out of the kitchen just as John was coming up the stairs once again, a large box tucked haphazardly under his arm, his hands carrying the last of the bags.

Sherlock laid all of the items he had snatched on the ground and then sat down, lying Hamish on his back. The tiny boy squirmed slightly, but relaxed as his father began gently tugging off his dirty shirt. The detective pulled the tattered pants off, too, and threw the two garments towards the kitchen where they hit the wall and fell with a light 'thud.'

Sherlock looked back at Hamish and only then did he realize how truly filthy the poor boy was; his whole, little body was covered in patches of dirt and grime, and his nappy hadn't been changed for far too long. Sherlock quickly took the soiled nappy off, and tried to put a new one on. It was lopsided, and not quite done all the way, but it would work, he decided with a nod of his head. The detective made to reach for the onesie, but then stopped mid-way. "John?" he called.

"Yeah?" The doctor entered from the kitchen, and his eyes fell to little Hamish. "Oh," he whispered sadly as he saw how truly dirty the child was.

"John," Sherlock repeated, pulling his flat mate out of his thinking. "Should we just leave him in his nappy until we can give him a bath?" he asked. "Or should I change him?"

"No," John replied, " leave him in the nappy; he'll be fine." With a bittersweet smile, the doctor sauntered over to his new tiny flat mate. He crouched down, a smile dancing over his lips. Hamish flinched away, trying to reach for Sherlock. The detective reached his hand out for his son to grab onto; instantly, the tiny boy curled one tiny hand around his father's finger.

"It's all right, Hamish. This is John." Sherlock pointed with his free hand to John, then looked back at Hamish. "He's a friend." With a reassuring smile, the detective pulled the small boy up into his lap. Hamish scrunched back, pushing himself against his father's stomach, still shying away from John.

"No, Hamish. He's nice. See?" Hoping to help his son see he was perfectly safe around John, Sherlock took one of the tiny boy's hands like he had done earlier with the examination of the flat, and reached out so Hamish's little hand was touching John's. The small boy whimpered slightly, but allowed the contact when Sherlock pressed a reassuring kiss to the top of his head.

Sensing his little flat mate's anxiety, John smiled reassuringly and whispered, "Hey, little man." The doctor felt a warmth flutter in his chest when Hamish's hand relaxed against his own, and the small boy began tracing a single finger over the planes of his palm.

Sherlock and John smiled down at the new, additional flat mate between them, but the sweet moment was interrupted by the sound of Hamish's stomach grumbling. The little boy looked down at his middle, and then turned his gaze expectantly to the two men.

"Right then," John sighed, pushing himself up off the ground. "Let's get some food in you, hmm?" The doctor quickly sent Hamish a reassuring smile and then turned towards the kitchen, gesturing that his flat mate should follow. Sherlock nodded and the trio entered the kitchen.

"Right, then. We don't know what kind of nutritional intake he's received—if any," John started, pulling out several bags and cartons of fruit, some sliced meats, and a sippy-cup-type bottle. "So, just to make sure he can digest everything properly, we'll start him off slowly and carefully, and if all goes well, we'll start him on a diet common for one-year old's, okay?"

Sherlock merely nodded.

"Right, then. First things first. Let's try some fruit." The doctor grabbed a peach. "We're going to take off the peel so he can just eat the fruit on the inside. We'll start with this." Sherlock watched as his flat mate carefully peeled the peach, and then chopped it up into smaller, eatable bits, which he put onto a small plate. "There you go." He offered the plate to Sherlock.

"Oh. Oh, right." Making sure Hamish was situated comfortably and safely, Sherlock took the plate and then sat at the table. "Now, how should I um…" He trailed off, trying to figure out how to properly position Hamish, so as to feed him. John chuckled softly, but moved over to his flat mates—who were now seated at their little table with Hamish in Sherlock's lap—and moved the young boy so that he was sitting closer to the table.

"Now just put the plate on the table, close to the edge, and let's see if he reaches for the fruit, all right?"

Sherlock obeyed and nodded, and placed the plate close to the edge of the table, as instructed.

Both adults watched as the small boy eyed the plate suspiciously, and then the flat mates' lips spread into a wide grin when Hamish, with hesitant movements, reached forward and made a grab for the fruit.

Sherlock felt his heart twinge sadly in his chest when he saw the small boy ever-so-carefully place the yellow fruit in his mouth and begin to chew. Almost immediately, Hamish's eyes widened and he made a hasty grab for another small piece.

Sherlock and John exchanged a wary glance.

Obviously has not been fed for longer than originally anticipated, thought Sherlock, looking back at Hamish, who's eyes had begun to roll into the back of his head as he hastily began to finish the chopped peach.

"Poor little guy," John murmured sadly before looking at his watch. "Oh no! Sorry, Sherlock, but I've got to go! I forgot I have a date with Mary tonight at 7:30 and it's already 7:20! I've got to run," the doctor mumbled hurriedly as he reached for his coat.

"But John—" Sherlock started, handing Hamish one of the last pieces of peach.

"No," John sighed with a chuckle, "no 'buts.' You'll be just fine, I promise. Just be sure that you don't feed him anything else until we're sure that the peach has settled nicely, keep him entertained, feed him again if he appears to be hungry, give him a bath, and put him to bed. Simple! I'll be back late. 'Night!" And with that, the doctor was gone, leaving Sherlock alone with Hamish.

Glaring at the spot where his flat mate had been, Sherlock turned his attention back to the quickly-tiring boy on his lap. "You like that, hmm?" he murmured sadly, taking the last piece of fruit between his slender fingers and then depositing it in his son's mouth. "Probably feels better, doesn't it?"

The small boy hummed tiredly in response.

Sherlock practically jumped upon feeling his phone buzz in his pocket. The detective grouchily pulled out his mobile and glanced at the text he'd just received.

**Got everything you wanted on him. Should be there either late tonight or early tomorrow. MH**

That's right, Sherlock thought. He'd forgotten that when he'd been on the phone with Mycroft earlier that day, he'd asked him to retrieve any, and all information he could on Hamish and send it to him. Good. With a firm nod of his head, the detective turned his attention back to Hamish, and grabbed the plate, which emitted a tired grunt of protest from the small boy.

"I know, I know you're hungry, Hamish, and I'm sorry, but you can't have any more. Not until it's settled," Sherlock whispered with an apologetic kiss to the small boy's temple. Carefully settling his son over his shoulder, the detective placed the plate in the sink. "Well..." he began, peering at Hamish and remembering how dirty the poor child was. "Let's take a bath, then, shall we?"

With a gentle pat to Hamish's bare back, Sherlock walked into his bedroom then into the bathroom. He started the water running and then it suddenly occurred to him that Hamish would probably want some toys to play with. Leaving the water running, and toting his son along with him, Sherlock hurried back into the kitchen, and looked through the bags until he found the one that contained bath toys, as well as baby soap. Thank you John, he silently thanked, grabbing the items in his free hand.

Once back in the bathroom he put the toys and the soap on the counter of the sink, and shut the water off. He knew Hamish would probably need to have two baths – one to get the dirt off, and then one to actually get him good and truly cleaned.

Sherlock removed Hamish's nappy, and made to put the little boy in the bath. Almost instantly, he began to scream and cry. Deep green eyes suddenly going wide, Hamish began to kick his little legs and several tears slipped out of the corner of his eyes. "Da!" he cried, tiny voice laced with utter fear. "Da! Da!" Cheeks now flushed a dark red, and his small chest heaving up down with frightened gasps of breath, Hamish grasped on to his father's shirt with two tiny fists, crying helplessly as he attempted to crawl away from the water and into Sherlock's familiar arms.

"What, Hamish?" the detective asked worriedly, immediately pulling his son away from the water and settling his quavering form against his hip. "Hamish, it's all right. It's just water," Sherlock explained calmly, wrapping a hand around Hamish's waist to make sure the small boy felt safe. The detective dipped his hand into the warm water and turned Hamish around so he could see. "See, Hamish? It's all right. Nothing's going to happen." When Sherlock noticed the small boy was only sniffling, he made to move Hamish into the water again. "Shh," the detective whispered as he placed a hand under either of his son's armpits and held him carefully above the water.

Though Hamish didn't start screaming, silent tears were rolling down his cheeks as he clutched to Sherlock's hands, which were wrapped firmly around his little middle.

Sherlock's eyes saddened when he saw Hamish's legs and toes curl upwards and away from the water.

"Daa," the little boy moaned, kicking his chubby legs once again.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock whispered sadly, knowing this fear had undoubtedly come from something at the orphanage. "I promise, Hamish. I have you." The detective looked right into the little boy's eyes, and gave a reassuring nod before lowering him into the water.

The liquid almost instantly turned a murky color from all the dirt that came off of Hamish's tiny body. Upon seeing the water turn brown around him, the little boy began to cry again. Sherlock hurriedly got a washcloth and wiped away all the bits of dirt and grime still on his son's small body, all the while whispering soothing words into Hamish's ear. Once finished, the detective quickly drained the water, and then re-filled it with more warm water.

"Right, then. Ready?" he asked, once the tub was full. He could see tears quickly filling Hamish's impossibly green eyes.

"Da," the little boy whimpered with a wavering voice. Fresh tears beginning to stream down his little cheeks, Hamish turned and buried his face in the warm safety of Sherlock's shoulder.

"Shh," the detective whispered, kneelign down and pressing a loving kiss to the small boy's temple. "You'll be all right, Hamish. I promise I will have you the whole time... Don't you trust me?" he asked, allowing his cheek to rest against the top of his son's head.

After several moments of clear, worried contemplation, Hamish pulled out of the safety of his father's shoulder and sniffled.

"There's a good boy," Sherlock murmured with a smile. Before placing him in the bath, the detective used the pad of his thumb to rub away the tears that were still resh on Hamish's cheeks. "Ready?"

"Da..."

"Very good, then." Making sure Hamish felt secure, Sherlock kept his large hands wrapped around the boy's tiny middle and then lowered him into the freshly-drawn bath water.

As he was slowly lowered into the water, Hamish still clung to his father's hands, and kept his eyes squeezed shut.

"Hamish." Upon hearing his father's voice, the little boy hesitantly opened his eyes and glanced down. The water had not turned murky this time... And suddenly, seeing the water clear and clean, all seemed well, and the little boy calmed down considerable. A small smile grace his little lips.

When his son relaxed in his hands, Sherlock sighed in relief and, keeping one hand still around Hamish's middle, reached around and grabbed the soap and began to clean the little boy. The detective couldn't help but smile in fondness when Hamish became very amused with all the bubbles that soon filled the bathtub. Chuckling, Sherlock scooped some of the suds into his hand and placed a little pile of them atop Hamish's wet curls.

After realizing what his father had done, the little boy began giggling, and took some bubbles in his own hand and tried to reach towards Sherlock's face. Obliging, the detective leaned in towards Hamish so as to give him easier access.

With concentration unique only to a child, Hamish carefully placed a little pile of bubbles on Sherlock's nose. "Da…" he sighed with a content smile, allowing one of his wet, tiny hands to rest against his father's chiseled cheek.

Once again, Sherlock felt that warm feeling spread throughout his chest, and he couldn't help but to smile at the little boy in front of him – his son...

Sherlock soon finished washing Hamish then gave the little boy a few minutes to play with all of the bath toys John had gotten.

After getting Hamish out of the bath and drying him of with a fresh towel, Sherlock walked into the kitchen with the small boy clothed only in the linen. The detective grabbed some nappie and wipes, and then left the kitchen, taking a seat on the ground where he had earlier. The onesie was still lying on the ground where he'd placed it.

Sherlock put Hamish's nappy on (much less crooked this time), put the little onesie on and then pulled his son into his lap. Upon being dressed and seating comfortably in his father's lap, Hamish stuck out his bottom lip, and took the soft fabric between his index finger and thumb, rubbing the cloth between his fingers. It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that the little boy had probably never had nice, soft, clean clothes to wear. The thought made his heart twinge sadly in his chest.

"Poor thing," the detective murmured, scooping Hamish up—which resulted in a startled cry from the small boy boy—and then pulling him into a hug. "You're safe now," he murmured with uncharacteristic gentleness. When Hamish did not protest to the sudden, entombing contact, Sherlock merely continued to hold the tiny boy close, not even realizing he had begun to rock back and forth.

And apparently Hamish was rather content with such a thing, because when Sherlock pulled away, the small boy was fast asleep, his little body curled against the planes of his father's chest; his small arms and legs were tucked inward, as if he was clinging to the detective.

Feeling something flutter up and down his spine at the sight and feel of Hamish curled against his chest, sleeping soundly, Sherlock gently cradled the small boy in his arms and walked into his room. He had debated about putting together the cot, but decided he would just let Hamish sleep in his bed tonight.

Carefully, Sherlock set the now-sleeping boy in his bed, and ever-so-carefully pulled the duvet up slightly around Hamish, who was now fast asleep. Not wanting him to get hurt, the detective placed several pillows around him so he wouldn't roll off the bed.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, not quite sure what to do with himself. Deciding he would check back in on the small boy at frequent intervals, the detective made for the door. Just as he was about to exit, Hamish released a content little sigh.

Pausing for a moment to allow the sweet sound to feel his ears and reverberate through his skull, Sherlock looked back at the little boy, and felt that same warmth spread throughout his chest.

What is that? Sherlock thought, now frustrated that he couldn't understand what he was feeling.

The room was silent. All that could be heard were the tiny breaths Hamish was taking.

Not really knowing what he was doing, but feeling a sudden urge to do whatever it was, Sherlock slowly crept over to his bed, and peered past the pillows to see a very content-looking Hamish, sleeping soundly. His tiny fingers were curled inwards, and resting flat on the bed; the tiny boy's chest rose and fell with each deep breath, which was accompanied by a gentle exhale, the sound of which was too precious for words.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile himself. And, without thinking, he bent over and pressed his lips to Hamish's warm cheek. "I love you, Hamish," he murmured suddenly, allowing his lips to linger against his son's skin. That same warmth suddenly spread throughout him, again. Oh, he thought, realization flashing through his ever-active mind. Now I understand. Sherlock's smile widened and softened even more at the prospect of feeling love – more love than he could have ever thought possible – for this little human being asleep just mere inches from him. My son… My son…

"Oh, Hamish," the detective whispered, brushing several auburn curls away from his son's forehead. "What on earth have you done to me?" he added with a small smile.


	5. Nightmares

Just as Sherlock shut the door to his bedroom, he heard a quiet knock from downstairs. He opened the door to find a very nicely dressed man holding a large envelope.

"Delivery for Sherlock Holmes," the man said.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, taking the envelope from the man's hands. He shut the door and walked back up the stairs, pulling a stack of papers out of the large envelope. Papers in hand, he plopped down on the couch and began reading.

Sherlock read and re-read the file on Hamish for several hours, becoming more and more angered every time.

Hamish was not even 16 months old yet as Sherlock had previously thought; Hamish was only 12 months old; a mere year. He was abandoned at the orphanage when we was just days old. That meant he had spent the entirety of his little, innocent life at that horrible orphanage.

There had been evidence of physical abuse; Mycroft had found medical records. Hamish had been brought into surgery one time because he had gotten ill. While there, the doctor noticed bruises on the child's face. When the doctor inquired about what had happen, whoever was with him replied that Hamish had just fallen over and hit his head in doing so. But when the little boy was examined further, he was found to have bruises on his arms and legs.

Sherlock was infuriated. Mycroft had managed to find out that the abusers were both the orphanage workers as well as kids in the orphanage. Sherlock felt an incredible amount of anger boiling in his blood for the supposed 'caretakers' at the orphanage, not only because they had hurt the beautiful little boy sleeping in the room across from him, but because they had also allowed others to hurt him as well.

Sherlock threw the papers down, and tried to calm himself. It's okay now. He's here with John and me, and he'll be much better. We can show him that he's safe and always will be... It's all going to be okay, Sherlock kept telling himself.

He picked up the file, crumpled up the pages that spoke of Hamish's abuse, and threw them as far away as he could; the words were now permanently burned into his brain, and he didn't need to become more and more angered each time he read those pages, anyway.

Sherlock pulled the rest of the pages out and decided to focus on the happier things in Hamish's tiny file.

Hamish was reported to have been very bright, and have an interest in drawing. Duly noted, Sherlock thought. He had yet to speak or form words, but his motor skills were very advanced.

He hadn't been adopted because every time a potential family would try to approach him, Hamish would react the same way he had when Sherlock tried to approach him earlier that day; he would scream and cry and try to run away. All the families who thought about adopting him then decided against it because they didn't want to have to try to 'deal with a child like that.'

Although it made Sherlock terribly sad to think about this happening to Hamish, he was also secretly relieved that he hadn't been adopted; it was strange, but now that he was here, Sherlock couldn't imagine his life without little Hamish in it.

It may have been selfish, but Sherlock was glad that he was the one who had gotten to take Hamish home and love him and care for him.

Sherlock vaguely wondered how Mycroft had gathered all this information; he was sure the orphanage didn't keep this on hand, but he decided he didn't care how Mycroft got it, he was just happy to know everything he could about his son's short past.

Sherlock put the papers down, and thought about all of the good things in that file, deciding to push aside the thoughts of the abuse Hamish suffered.

Just as Sherlock was smiling at the fact that Hamish liked to draw (and did quite often), he heard the little boy stir in his room. The detective remained still and quite and listened for more movement or sounds.

Upon hearing more movement, he stood up and slowly and quietly moved towards his room.

"No, no!" Sherlock heard the cries, and bolted for the door. "Da! No! Nooo! Daaa!"

Sherlock flew open the door and rushed to the bed, pulling the pillows away. Hamish was asleep, but tears were streaming down his scrunched up face. His little arms were flailing around, desperately trying to reach out for Sherlock.

"Daaaa," he cried, his body shaking with the sobs that were coursing through him.

Sherlock hurriedly scooped up Hamish, clutching him to his chest, wrapping his arms protectively around the little body.

"Hamish, it's okay, it's okay, Daddy's here," Sherlock said quickly and in a hushed tone. "What, Hamish, what's wrong?" he asked frantically.

"Nooo," Hamish sobbed pointing a finger in the direction of the wall as he pushed his head against Sherlock's chest as if he was trying to get away from someone. "Ouch, daaa," the little boy sobbed.

Sherlock was about to try to soothe the boy again, still unsure of what was making him so upset, when - just like that - he understood. Hamish was having a nightmare about someone trying to hurt him, like at the orphanage.

"Hamish. Hamish, please wake up," he jostled the little boy ever so slightly; trying to get him to open his eyes and see that he was safe.

"No, no, daa," the little boy protested.

"Hamish you're safe, please open your eyes," Sherlock begged.

Suddenly, with tears still streaming down his face, Hamish jolted awake with a small shudder. Sherlock clutched his small form closer to his chest, trying to calm him down. Almost immediately, Hamish's head turned in the direction he had pointed earlier, fearful that whomever he had seen was going to be chasing him.

When Hamish saw that there was no one there, that no one was going to hurt him, and that he was safe, he visibly relaxed in Sherlock's arms, but was still crying as he tried to calm down his breath coming in short, quick bursts, his tiny chest rising and falling quickly.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock murmured sadly. He rubbed soothing circles on Hamish's back, rocking back and forth. The little boy pulled his head away from his father's chest and looked up at Sherlock with watery eyes. He took one of his little hands and reached up towards Sherlock, touching his jaw.

"Da," the little boy said contently as he tried to reach Sherlock's cheek, but still only being able to touch his jaw.

Sherlock closed his eyes and put his large hand over his son's small one on his jaw.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm here. It's all okay now." Sherlock heard Hamish's breaths slowing down, and could feel his little chest begin to breath more normally against him.

Sherlock stood and held Hamish close to him, their hands still together on Sherlock's jaw when Hamish let out a large yawn, his face scrunching up.

"Oh, yes, you're probably still tired, aren't you?" Sherlock whispered quietly.

"Mmm," replied Hamish tiredly, now worn out from all of his crying.

"Okay, then," Sherlock murmured, moving Hamish back towards the bed. Hamish still kept his hand on Sherlock's jaw, and when Sherlock tried to pull the little boy's hand from his face, Hamish replied with a tiny, "No, Da."

"Do you want me to stay in here with you, Hamish?"

"Mmm," the little boy replied sleepily.

Sherlock crawled into the bed, still cuddling Hamish close to him, and moved the pillows to the other side to form a wall.

Hamish looked up at Sherlock sleepily. "Daaaa," he sighed, his voice high and airy.

Sherlock smiled and used his free hand to brush some unruly curls from Hamish's face. The little boy smiled slightly and reached up trying to do the same. Seeing how Hamish couldn't quite reach him, Sherlock rolled onto his back, and pulled the little boy onto his chest, scooting his tiny body close to his face.

Smiling sleepily, Hamish crawled up to his father's face, and tried to push away the dark curls. Sherlock chuckled lightly as he felt Hamish's hand fall away from his hair and onto his cheek.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed, as he fell asleep on Sherlock's chest, one hand clutching a fistful of Sherlock's shirt, the other now on Sherlock's cheek.

Though he never imagined himself ever being in a situation even remotely similar to the one he found himself in now, Sherlock enjoyed the feeling of having his son breathing steadily on his chest. He loved how his little, chubby hand still rested on his face.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock moved his hand onto Hamish's back, and, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Hamish's small chest, drifted off to sleep…


	6. Day One At 221B

Sherlock was awoken by a stirring by on his chest. Slowly he opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep. He looked at his clock next to him. 7:34 a.m. Then he turned his attention to the stirring child on his chest.

Sleepily, Hamish woke up, and peered up at Sherlock, his eyes droopy with sleep. A small smile spread on his lips as he scooted himself closer to his father's face.

"Mmm, good morning, Hamish," Sherlock said sleepily, a yawn escaping his lips. The sound made little Hamish giggle.

"Daa," he said, still giggling happily. He reached a tiny, chubby hand out and gently prodded at Sherlock's face.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed contently.

Sherlock was pulled out of his sleepy state by the smell of coffee brewing. He remembered that John had come back late last night.

"Well," he said to Hamish, sitting up, "let's get ready, then, shall we? Oh." Realizing he'd slept in his clothes, Sherlock pulled Hamish into his arms, and walked over to his dresser. He grabbed a clean shirt and his signature pajama bottoms, and then walked back over to the bed. Carefully he laid Hamish on the bed, changed quickly, and scooped the little boy back up again.

"Morning, John," Sherlock said as he walked with Hamish into the kitchen where John had just finished pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Morning, you two," John said smiling at his flat mate and the cute little boy in his arms.

"Just a moment, John, I'm going to change his nappy and clothes." Sherlock looked around the kitchen, found everything he needed, left the kitchen, laid Hamish down on the ground, and changed his nappy quickly. Sherlock gave a nod and smiled at himself, proud that he'd successfully put on the nappy correctly this time. He grabbed the baby garments he'd set down. Finally, a practical outfit, Sherlock thought to himself as he lifted Hamish's little arms up to pull a plain, blue shirt over his arms. Hamish fussed slightly as Sherlock tried to pull the tiny pants over his legs, but once the trousers were on, he stopped fussing, and lifted his arms up to Sherlock.

Sherlock obliged, picking Hamish up and carrying him back into the kitchen where John was sitting at the table, a serious look on his face.

"What's wrong, John?' Sherlock asked asked, as he moved around the kitchen, beginning to prepare a bottle for Hamish.

In response, John lifted up a small pile of papers towards Sherlock. He peered at them, then realized John had been reading Hamish's file papers that had been left in the other room last night. Sherlock noticed John had also gotten the crumpled papers he had thrown across the room the last night.

"This… This is horrible!" John muttered darkly. He looked at Hamish who was currently examining the kitchen from his perch on Sherlock's hip, one tiny hand clutching Sherlock's. John smiled sadly at the little boy, who looked so innocent. He turned to Sherlock, whose face mirrored the dark expression on John's face.

"This—I mean how could they—"

"Yes, John," Sherlock interrupted, "I know. Trust me… I know." Both men turned their attention back to the little boy who now peered between the two men, sensing the change of mood. His eyes had become slightly watery. He peered warily at Sherlock as if to see if everything was okay.

In an effort to lighten the mood once again, John smiled at Hamish, gave the little boy a quick impromptu kiss on the cheek (which resulted in a smirk from Sherlock when John blushed profusely), then walked over to Hamish's file and threw the already-crumpled pages in the bin.

"There," John said with an air of finality, nodding at the trash bin. As he did so, Sherlock finished preparing Hamish's bottle. The little boy on his hip, and a bottle in the other hand, he moved to the chair across from the one John had previously occupied. He sat down at the table, moved Hamish to the crook of his arm, and slipped the bottle into his mouth. Almost exactly the way he had yesterday, the little boy tentatively sipped on the bottle, and then, realizing what is was, began hurriedly sucking the milk out of the bottle.

"Poor little guy," John said from across the table. Sherlock just gave a little nod of his head, watching Hamish with fond eyes.

The trio sat in silence as Hamish finished off the bottle, squealing slightly when he realized there was none left.

"Should I make him another one?" Sherlock asked John, taking the now-empty bottle out of Hamish's mouth.

"Let's wait just once more to make sure we're not giving him too much food, too fast, and then, yes, you can give him another."

"Alright. Thank you, John."

Sherlock moved to burp the little boy who grunted to show his displeasure at being moved from his comfy spot, but then relaxed once again.

"Remember, Sherlock, I have to work today, so you'll be alone with Hamish for a while," John reminded the detective.

"Yes, I remember, John, but thank you for reminding me," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"Okay, okay, no need to be rude, I was just trying to helpful," John said quickly as he got up and reached for his coat.

"Wait, John," Sherlock said, remembering something. "What should we do all day?" He gestured to Hamish, who was now moved back into the crook of Sherlock's arm.

"I don't know. Talk to him, play with him, let him watch TV, maybe take him outside; God knows he probably hasn't seen much of the outside," he added, sadly. "You'll think of something. You're supposed to be a genius, remember," he said with a smile.

"Right," Sherlock said, his eyebrows drawn together. "Thank you, John. Have a good day at surgery. We'll see you when you get home."

"Right. See you." With that, John disappeared down the stairs, and out the front door.

Sherlock turned his head away from the stairs and back at Hamish. Hamish stared back expectantly.

"Well then," Sherlock said, standing up, keeping Hamish in his cradled position. "I say we go outside, then. How's that sound?" he said excitedly. Hamish's sea-green eyes lit up, and the little boy smiled slightly.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sherlock said with a smile. He turned around, looking through the many shopping bags scattered across the kitchen for a jacket for Hamish, as it was rather chilly outside. When he found what he needed, he walked into his room, and made to set Hamish down on the bed so he could change into proper clothes. But he was stopped as Hamish made a little whimpering noise. Instantly Sherlock pulled the little boy back to his chest.

"What? What, Hamish?" he said, frantically, afraid the little boy was hurt.

Hamish shifted around slightly in his father's arms and pointed a chubby finger at the bed.

"No, Da," the little boy said, still pointing at the bed.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed in relief, "you don't want me to leave you alone on the bed, is that it?"

"Mmm," Hamish replied, giving a tiny nod of his head.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, and moved Hamish so he was sitting on his lap, his chubby little legs spread apart slightly.

"Hamish, I'm just going to leave you here for a moment so that I can get dressed. I'm not going to leave, or go anywhere, all right?" Sherlock reassured the little boy in a calming voice. Hamish's eyes had begun to fill with tears, and one silently spilled over.

Sherlock smiled sadly, and lightly brushed away the tear with his thumb. "It's okay, Hamish."

Hamish reached his little hand up and grasped tightly onto Sherlock's thumb; his whole hand could just fit around Sherlock's finger. As if coming to the conclusion that it was okay for Sherlock to get himself dressed, Hamish leaned his head forward so it was resting against Sherlock's chest and sighed, "'Kay, Da."

Sherlock smiled and moved his hand to the back of the little boys head, smoothing down the auburn curls. "Good boy, Hamish. I'll just be a moment." He planted a quick kiss atop the boy's head, then gently moved the boy off his lap and onto the bed next to him. He was careful to scoot Hamish back far enough so that he wouldn't fall of the edge.

Sherlock then quickly got up, smiling at Hamish once again, and changed out of his pajamas and into his signature suit. All the while, Hamish just sat on Sherlock's bed, watching Sherlock intently, making sure he kept his promise to stay.

When Sherlock walked back over, now fully dressed, and picked up Hamish, the little boy smiled widely, apparently at peace now that he was safely back in his father's arms.

"All right," Sherlock said as he put Hamish in his coat and slipped his own on. "I think we're ready. Let's go." Sherlock moved the little boy to his hip, and walked out the front door into the chilly air.

Upon feeling the chilly breeze, Hamish audibly gasped, and turned around quickly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and collarbone. He shivered in Sherlock's arms.

"Oh, sorry, Hamish," Sherlock said. He quickly moved his own coat around Hamish, giving the boy extra protection from the cold.

Now much warmer, Hamish turned back around, and began taking in his surroundings as Sherlock continued walking down the street, Hamish bobbing slightly in his arms.

Shortly after the walk had begun, the two passed a young woman walking down the street. She had light brown hair, was of medium build and average height. Hamish's gaze shifted to her, and his eyes widened. He let out a small squeal, and quickly turned in Sherlock's arms, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest.

"Daa," he whimpered.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "What? What is it, Hamish?"

In response, the little boy pointed haphazardly at the passing woman while simultaneously pressing further into Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't understand what was wrong with Hamish, and he couldn't understand what about the passing woman had alarmed him so much. Unable to figure out what was wrong, Sherlock resorted to trying to calm the boy. He bounced gently up and down, and moved a soothing hand up and down Hamish's tiny back. "Shh, it's all right, Hamish. Shh," he soothed as he began walking again.

Hamish just shook his head against Sherlock's chest, and let out a small whimper again. Sherlock, becoming quite worried, turned the little boy around in his arms, and showed him the street.

"See? She's gone. There's no one there, Hamish. It's all okay." Seeing that the woman had disappeared, Hamish relaxed, and leaned his back against Sherlock's chest, but he kept one chubby hand clutching Sherlock's shirt.

The two kept walking down the street again, Sherlock trying to make his way to a nearby park. Soon, though, another woman with light brown hair, of medium build and average height walked past them again. Hamish whimpered, and pointed immediately with his free hand, and then turned back at Sherlock as if to say, "Do you understand now?"

Sherlock still didn't understand what his son was trying to tell him, though, so he wrapped his arms tighter around Hamish, and quickly walked past the woman. Sherlock took notice of how Hamish flinched slightly when she nodded at the two.

This same thing happened two more times; women with brown hair and of average height and build passed by, and Hamish would whimper and point. Suddenly the realization hit him. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

"Hamish," he asked hurriedly, "do those women look like people who hurt you?"

Hearing his name, Hamish turned his head back to look up at his father, his eyebrows drawn together in a confused look.

They had just reached the park. Sherlock hurried over to a nearby bench, and sat down. He turned Hamish in his lap, and held his hands under his armpits so that Hamish was in a standing position. Hamish's hands rested against Sherlock's chest.

"Hamish, did someone who looked like those women," he pointed back at the woman they had just passed, " hurt you?" He pointed at Hamish to help him understand what he was talking about.

Hamish still looked confused. "Ouch?" he said, and pointed to himself. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. "Yes, yes, Hamish. Ouch?" he pointed at Hamish again.

Hamish nodded; the dark curls on his head bounced slightly. "Ouch. Ouch, Da'." He point at himself again.

"Oh, Hamish, I'm so sorry!" Sherlock cried, clutching the little boy to his chest. He felt horribly guilty; he'd terrified Hamish several times making him fearful that he was going to get hurt again and he didn't even know he was doing! He had just subjected his son to fear, and felt such a level of guilt; he didn't know when it would subside.

Tears threatened to fall from his eyes. He felt a single, hot bead of water fall from his eye and onto his cheek.

Hamish, though surprised by the sudden embrace, and not understanding why he had received it, leaned into to Sherlock's hug, enjoying the contact. Sherlock sniffled, trying to hide the fact that he was crying. Hearing the strange noise his father had just made, Hamish pulled his head away from Sherlock's chest, and looked up at his face.

The little boy's eyes widened as he saw the tear sliding down his father's face.

"Da?" he asked worriedly. "Da 'kay?" Sherlock looked back down at Hamish whose green eyes were filled with concern. He chuckled slightly, sniffling again. "Yes, Hamish, I'm okay, I promise. Thank you."

Not convinced, Hamish moved his hands onto Sherlock's shoulders and pulled himself up further so the top of his head just reached above Sherlock's jaw. Satisfied with his position, he took his right hand, and slowly moved it to his father's face. Very gently, Hamish took his small fingers, and brushed them over his father's face, wiping away the tear, just as Sherlock had done to him earlier. He looked into Sherlock's steele-grey eyes, and gave a small smile. He brushed his hand again over the wet spot on Sherlock's face where the tear had fallen. He let his hand stop in the hollow just below his father's cheekbone. His fingers curled slightly as he tried to hold himself up. He looked back into Sherlock's eyes.

"'Kay, Da'," smiled Hamish, proud he'd fixed his father's sadness.

Sherlock chuckled, and smiled widely. He moved his hand to cover Hamish's, and gently kissed the little fingers that had wiped away his tear.

"Yes, Hamish," he whispered, "I'm all better now."

"Da' 'etter!" Hamish repeated triumphantly.

Sherlock nodded his head, before realizing that Hamish had just said another word. He jumped up, swinging Hamish around in the air.

"Oh, Hamish! You just said a new word, very, very good! You're so clever!" he praised. Hamish giggled happily; proud of the praise he was receiving.

"Come on then, Hamish! Let's go play, shall we?" Sherlock said happily, pulling a giggling Hamish onto his hip, the sadness now forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! I figured I would just post this chapter today too, because Chapter Five was pretty short and this is kind of like a follow-up chapter. Next chapter will be up tomorrow. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! They encourage me to keep writing! Hope you enjoy! Thanks guys! =)


	7. TV

"Come on then, Hamish! Let's go play, shall we?" Sherlock said happily, pulling a giggling Hamish onto his hip, the sadness now forgotten.

The detective walked over to the equipment made for very young children. It consisted of some swings with seats, a very tiny slide, and a really tiny playset. Sherlock stopped in front and looked at Hamish. A small smile played on his lips, as he watched Hamish's eyes widen at the items in front of him. He followed Hamish's gaze to see that he was staring at the swings.

"Swings it is then," Sherlock said with a slight nod of his head. He made his way to the closest swing. He moved Hamish out of his grip and placed the little boy in the swing. As he began to back away, though, Hamish called out frantically, "Da!" He reached his chubby arms out for Sherlock, grabbing hold of the sleeve of Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock turned around and chuckled slightly. "All right, then. I'll stay right here. You can take my hands." He moved back so he was close to Hamish, and stuck his hands out. Hamish eagerly reached out and grabbed ahold of his father's hands. Each tiny hand clutched onto one of Sherlock's fingers.

Wrapping his hands around his sons incredibly small ones, Sherlock began to very gently rock Hamish back and forth, noting that he was still quite small, though Hamish didn't seem to mind the gently rocking, in fact he seemed to be enjoying himself, a large smile on his face as he giggled happily.

Sherlock couldn't help but join in his son's happiness, and a quiet laugh escaped his lips as he continued rocking Hamish back and forth.

Hamish's eyes began to wander around the playground, and when he saw the tiny slide, he shook Sherlock's hands slightly and pulled one free to point at the slide. Understanding, Sherlock stopped the swing, and pulled Hamish out.

He carried Hamish over to the incredibly small slide and set Hamish at the top. Seeing the very alarmed look on his face at being so high up, Sherlock firmly wrapped his hands around Hamish's middle, and smiled reassuringly, as he moved to the bottom of the slide; it was so small, Sherlock could squat at the bottom and keep a firm hold of Hamish simultaneously.

When Hamish didn't move, Sherlock pulled slightly on his stomach, and gently slid the little boy down the slide, Hamish squealing the whole way down, a terrified look on his face.

Once at the bottom, Hamish immediately clung to his father, shaking slightly. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle lightly under his breath. Grasping fistfuls of Sherlock's shirt, Hamish looked back and scowled at the slide, while shaking his head.

"No. No, Da'," he said firmly.

Sherlock's smile widened. "Okay. No more slide. Got it." Still scowling at the slide, Hamish looked back at the swing, and, forgetting his anger at the slide, pointed towards it enthusiastically.

Obliging, Sherlock walked back towards the swings, and gently placed Hamish back in. Again, the little boy reached out for Sherlock's hands. A warm smile on his face, the detective reached out, and Hamish grasped each hand on a finger again. Sherlock subconsciously wrapped his fingers around his son's tiny hands and began gently rocking once more.

Now that his excitement had worn off slightly, Hamish's eyes began to loll around as the rhythmic rocking continued. Seeing this, Sherlock realized that they'd been gone for about 35 minutes, and that Hamish would need a nap and then a bottle when he woke up.

"Alright, Hamish, let's head home, hmm?" Sherlock asked rhetorically. He gently lifted the now-almost-limp Hamish out of the swing, and cradled him close to his chest. Hamish let out a tiny shiver as he began to drift off into sleep. Sherlock buttoned Hamish's coat, tucked his tiny legs into his own coat, and cradled the little boy's head in the crook of his arm as he made to leave the park and head home.

"I love you, Hamish," Sherlock whispered quietly as he moved a stray curl off of the little boy's head. The boy's eyes fluttered slightly as he sighed a content, "Mmm," before drifting off into sleep.

Sherlock spent the rest of the walk home reveling in the small being he had in his arms. As Hamish sighed in his arms, Sherlock felt that same warmth spread through his chest.

Sherlock smiled as he walked up the steps to 221B. He unlocked the door and walked in, allowing the warmth to envelope his body. Carefully, he walked up the steps to the flat, and then shrugged off his coat, trying not to wake up the still-sleeping Hamish against his chest.

After his coat was successfully discarded, Sherlock made his way towards his room, swung open the door, and moved to place Hamish on his bed, still having forgotten to put the cot together.

Very gently, he laid Hamish down on his bed, and pulled the covers up over his tiny body. He pulled the pillows back over, making two walls on either side of the baby's sleeping form.

Once he was done, Sherlock placed his hand on Hamish's head, amazed that his entire hand was bigger than his son's head. He smiled fondly at the thought, and leaned in to place a light kiss to Hamish's temple. As he did so, he noticed something he hadn't yet – Hamish's sweet smell. He smelled oddly new and lightly of baby formula. Sherlock inhaled lightly, the warmth once again spreading to his chest. His lips turned upward as he brushed the curls away from Hamish's head and a small sigh escaped from his small lips.

"I love you, Hamish," the detective murmured.

Leaving his hand lightly on Hamish's auburn curls, Sherlock just stood and listened to the gentle breathing of his son before silently slipping through the door, his lips still turned up in a smile, leaving his son to sleep peacefully.

While Hamish was taking a nap in his room, Sherlock decided to finally put the cot together. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sherlock pulled the box over to him, and dumped it open, scattering pieces all over the floor.

He raked through all of the contents, discarding the instructions along the way. He randomly picked up a piece, and began to try and build the cot.

Thirty-two minutes later, a very frustrated and flushed-looking Sherlock sat on the floor, the discarded instructions now clutched in his hand.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed. "No! That piece does not fit there, trust me I've tried!" he hissed at the crumpled paper in his hand.

He threw the paper down, then looked at it, the instructions now at a different angle, and flushed red again. "Oh," he muttered, picking up the paper, and turning the piece in his right hand slightly. It popped into place.

Ten minutes later the cot was successfully finished. Sherlock moved it by the window, and gave a proud nod at his work.

He was just about to pull out his phone to tell John of his achievement when a small whimper came from his room. Realizing Hamish was probably having another nightmare, Sherlock dashed towards his room, already talking, hoping the sound of his voice would calm to frightened boy.

"Shh, Hamish, I'm here, I'm here," he murmured as he entered the room, and quickly picked up Hamish. A single tear escaped the little boy's scrunched eyes as his breath quickened.

"No, no, no, Hamish, it's just a dream, wake up." Sherlock bounced the little boy slightly as he let out another whimper.

Hamish started awake, eyes wide with fear. Upon realizing he was safely in his father's arms, the little boy leaned forward, trying to calm himself. His head gently bumped against Sherlock's chest.

Relieved that Hamish had calmed down so quickly this time, Sherlock gently bounced the little boy, his hand subconsciously rubbing circles on Hamish's back as the little boy clutched onto Sherlock's arm.

"Daa," he sighed into Sherlock's shirt.

"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock whispered quietly, his deep baritone voice filling the silent room, "I'm here."

He walked out of his room, still bouncing Hamish as the little boy's breathing slowly returned to normal.

Sherlock quickly changed Hamish's nappy, and pulled up his trousers, but seeing how warm he was, decided to leave his shirt off until he cooled down a little.

After discarding the soiled nappy, Sherlock picked Hamish up again, and sat down in his chair. Sherlock had never noticed how truly smooth and soft Hamish's skin was. As he sat Hamish down on his lap, and placed his hands around his son's middle, he noticed how rough, and marred by life his hands seemed against Hamish's stomach, which was smooth, soft, and untouched by life. Sherlock couldn't help but smile to himself.

He noticed Hamish curiously eyeing the remote control that was sitting on the arm of the chair.

"Would you like to see this?" he asked Hamish, who turned his attention to his father, still looking curious.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sherlock chuckled, grabbing the remote and handing it gently to Hamish. When Sherlock let go of the remote, though, it fell down immediately, Hamish's little arms not strong enough to hold it up. As the remote fell on the baby's legs, he let out a grunt of displeasure, his bottom lip sticking out slightly.

He turned around to his father, an expectant look on his face. Sherlock grabbed the remote and handed it to Hamish. This time, though, he kept hold of it.

With his bottom lip sticking out the way it had been when Sherlock first met him, Hamish carefully examined the remote in his hands. He spun it around and turned it upside down. Carefully, he touched his hand to the smooth surface on the back, spreading his chubby fingers out, and moving them up and down. He smiled slightly, and turned briefly to Sherlock, who smiled encouragingly, then the little boy turned his attention back to the remote.

He flipped it over (with the help of Sherlock) and noticed the many buttons for the first time. His eyes widened at all of them. He turned back to Sherlock.

"Da?" he asked, pointing at the buttons.

"You click them, Hamish," Sherlock replied happily. "See? Let me show you." Sherlock took one of Hamish's tiny hands in his own, and, much like they had on their first day together, Sherlock guided Hamish's chubby fingers until they pushed down one of the keys.

Hamish's eyes widened in wonder as his finger pressed down the button. He looked excitedly between his father and the remote. Smiling, Sherlock moved the little boy's hand to another button and pressed down.

Hamish began pressing down every button he could, gigging and smiling widely as he did so. He pressed down quickly on the power button, and jumped slightly as something popped to life that he had not seen yet – the television. Hamish started at the loud noise the TV started making, squeezing his eyes shut. Quickly he scooted away from it, backing up into Sherlock's stomach, turning around, and standing up, draping his chubby arms over Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock laughed lightly, pulling the remote from Hamish's hands, and wrapping his free hand protectively around Hamish's bare back.

"Shh," he chuckled, "Hamish, it's all right, it's just the television." Sherlock quickly changed the channel to a children's network and turned the volume down. He stood up, walked over the television, and turned Hamish around in his arms.

Cautiously, Hamish opened his eyes. With the loud, frightening noise now gone, and friendly-looking, animated characters now on the screen, Hamish became entranced by the television. His eyes widened, and he leaned slightly away from Sherlock towards the screen.

Seeing Hamish's wonder at the screen, Sherlock moved slightly closer so Hamish could touch it. Cautiously, Hamish reached forward with one hand. His other chubby hand moved to Sherlock's face, resting against the detective's lips. Sherlock smiled under Hamish's touch, his lips turning up under Hamish's tiny fingers.

Amazement in his eyes, the little boy turned around to his father, his hand sliding down the screen slightly as he did so.

"Da'," Hamish declared quietly. He tapped the television with his tiny fingers, his fingernails making a light 'tapping' noise against the surface. Silently, Sherlock moved his hand onto the screen. Smiling, Hamish turned his attention back to the TV. Slowly, he moved his hand towards it, gently placing it on top of Sherlock's.

Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat again, as Hamish lightly pressed his small hand against the back of his much larger one. His face now serious, and tender, Sherlock turned and gazed at Hamish, whose attention was still on the television, his eyes wide and bright with utter wonder. Sherlock looked fondly at Hamish's incredibly small hand resting on his own. This tiny being in his arms – whose impossibly small hand was on his own right now – was his son. The realization still made Sherlock's chest flood with warmth as he smiled tenderly at Hamish.

Gently, Sherlock pulled his hand off the TV screen, taking Hamish's along with it, though the little boy was so entranced by the show, he barely noticed. Sherlock backed up to his chair, and sat Hamish down on his lap, pulling him back so that Hamish was resting against his stomach. As he turned his attention to the television, he barely noticed as his hand wrapped around Hamish's bare stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I would just like to apologize if you find any inconsistencies and/or mistakes in this fic. So please excuse those. =) Thanks readers!


	8. A Little Conversation

At some point while Hamish and Sherlock were watching cartoons on the television, the little boy pointed at his stomach, a slight frown on his face, prompting Sherlock to quickly make a bottle.

Sherlock carried Hamish back in from the kitchen, bottle in hand, and plopped down on his chair. He placed Hamish on his lap, and then scooted the small form back, so that he was once again leaning against Sherlock's stomach. Situated, Sherlock then wrapped one hand around the little boy's belly, and used the other to bring the bottle to Hamish's mouth.

Hamish sucked happily at the formula, relaxing into Sherlock as the two continued to watch the cartoons, Sherlock occasionally rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of the shows, but always smiling again at the look of wonder in Hamish's eyes.

As Hamish drank the last of the milk in the bottle, he sighed contently, letting his head fall back and gently rest on Sherlock's chest.

The detective barely noticed as he began to play with Hamish's toes; subconsciously counting them and moving them back and forth as he watched the cartoons. It wasn't until he felt Hamish giggle against his stomach that he even noticed he had been playing with his tiny toes.

"Daaa," the little boy giggled happily, his toes curling slightly as Sherlock began to playfully tickle the bottom of his foot. He stood up on Sherlock's lap, and turned around, trying to crawl up Sherlock's abdomen to escape the tickling.

Sherlock laughed heartily at Hamish's efforts. He scooped up the boy, lifting him into the air, and ran over to the couch where he laid the squealing Hamish down and began blow raspberries on his stomach, not caring how foolish, or how out of character it was for him.

Hamish giggled and squealed happily as Sherlock tickled the little boy's bare stomach and his toes and behind his ears and under his arms until both were gasping for breath.

Sherlock fell onto the couch, pulling a still-laughing Hamish onto his chest. The little boy bounced lightly on Sherlock's chest as he laughed.

Eventually the two calmed down, catching their breath. In the background, the cartoon could be lightly heard.

Tired from all the laughing, Hamish collapsed onto Sherlock's chest, one tiny fist clutching the collar of Sherlock's white button-up. Gently, the other hand began to play with one of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, his tiny, curled finger delicately tracing it and spinning around it. Sherlock grinned tenderly as Hamish continued to play with the same button, his attention now turned back to the television, his fist still clutching his father's collar. Moving his hand to rest on Hamish's smooth back, Sherlock stared at his son, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

When John returned home from work, and got no response after calling out, "I got takeaway! Hope Chinese is okay!" he began to panic again and scurried up the stairs.

"Hello, John!" Sherlock called from his spot on the couch as he heard John hurrying up the stairs. "And yes, Chinese sounds lovely, thank you. Come on, Hamish," he grunted, sitting up, and receiving a small, unhappy grunt from Hamish and a disapproving look, having been moved from his comfortable position.

"Good," John smiled, placing the food on the already too-full table.

"John, could you please make Hamish a bottle while I check his nappy, quickly?"

"Sure," John replied, trying to clear off the table.

The three ate dinner slowly, John sharing anything interesting that had happened at surgery that day, then Sherlock briefly summing up his day with Hamish.

"Well, sound like you two had a busy day," John cooed towards Hamish, who looked at him warily from behind the bottle, still unsure if he could trust the doctor. John chuckled lightly, reaching for a second helping of Chinese.

Sherlock hadn't even started his meal yet, the plate of food sitting untouched in front of him.

Hamish downed the rest of the formula, and then, once the bottle was removed from his mouth, he reached two chubby arms up to Sherlock, who picked Hamish up and tried to lay him over his shoulder, but he was met with a very determined, "No, Da'."

Confused, Sherlock moved Hamish back down so he was in a standing position on his lap. Hamish, with one hand firmly against Sherlock's chest turned around slightly, and made to reach for Sherlock's plate of food.

Sherlock tried to move the plate away quickly, but Hamish had already picked up a noodle and now held it precariously in his chubby fingers.

"No, Hamish. I'm sorry but you can't have that. It's Daddy's food," Sherlock said, reaching to take the noodle away.

"No, Da'." Hamish said again, his bottom lip sticking out slightly. Sherlock was just about to continue his argument further when Hamish moved his little hand forward to Sherlock's now-closed mouth. Gently, he tapped the noodle between his chubby fingers against Sherlock's lips, a persistent look on his face. When Sherlock didn't open his mouth, still slightly confused as to what Hamish was trying to do, Hamish sighed, exasperated. Trying desperately not to drop the noodle, he haphazardly moved his other hand up to Sherlock's face, and tried to pry his father's lips open. His small fingernails brushed against the skin of Sherlock's lips.

When Sherlock helped, opening his lips slightly, Hamish tried to place the noddle inside his father's mouth.

"Da!" he said triumphantly.

"Ohhh," Sherlock chuckled. "Yes. Thank you very much, Hamish." The little boy smiled, and seemed to become happier at the small thank you from his father.

"Da' 'etter?" he asked, concerned, the small smile, still on his face, though.

"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock smiled. "I'm much better now, thank you."

Hamish reached back to the plate again, and carefully picked up another noodle. John sat, smiling, as Hamish, bottom lip protruding slightly, watched his hand intently as he moved it back to his father's mouth. Now understanding what Hamish was doing, Sherlock opened his mouth and allowed the little boy to gently place the noodle in, a triumphant smile replacing his concentrated features.

That's how dinner went for the rest of the night; Sherlock would eat a few forkfuls of Chinese by himself, and then when Hamish decided that Sherlock needed to eat more, he would pick up one noodle at a time, and very gently pry his father's lips open to delicately place the noodle in his mouth. The smile barely left the detectives lips that night as John watched on happily as the little boy fed his father, one noodle at a time.

Dinner went by very, very slowly, as Hamish insisted on feeding Sherlock each noodle, one by one. And Sherlock let him; smiling more each time Hamish delicately placed the food in his mouth.

John watched the whole endeavor, smiling fondly at the concentrated look on the little boy's face.

As Hamish turned back to grab one of the last noodles, Sherlock glanced at the clock. 8:54. Hamish should be getting tired soon, he thought to himself. Right on cue, Hamish let out a small yawn, his face scrunching slightly. The little sigh that escaped his lips after, made both Sherlock and John smile fondly at the little boy who had just turned back around to place another noodle in his father's mouth, determined to finish what he'd started.

When Hamish wasn't looking, Sherlock quickly scooped the rest of the noodles onto his fork, and ate them hurriedly, trying to speed up the process of getting the little boy to bed. Hamish turned around, reaching for another noodle, but when his little fingers felt none, he quickly spun around, his head moving from side to side as he searched the table looking for the last few noodles, his curls bobbing slightly.

Sherlock chuckled as he lifted Hamish up by his armpits, situating him on his lean chest. "It's okay, Hamish, I ate the last ones myself, seeing as it's time for you to go to bed. "

Hamish opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped as another yawn, much bigger this time, impaired him from doing so. His eyelids fell slightly as the yawn ended. Tiredness sweeping over him, the little boy leaned into Sherlock, his head resting just below Sherlock's shoulder. He reached up and clutched a little fistful of his father's shirt.

"Come on, Hamish. Time for bed." Sherlock began walking towards his door when he remembered that he'd put together the cot. "John?" he turned back to his flat mate who was cleaning up the kitchen. "Could you please carry Hamish's cot into my room?"

John looked past Sherlock and saw the finished cot for the first time.

"Wow," he said sarcastically, walking over to the cot, "you actually did something on your own without being forced to first? I'm very impressed." John bustled past the two, cot in hand, and a smirk on his face. He placed the cot to the left of Sherlock's bed. When he came back out, Sherlock had just finished up putting a clean nappy on Hamish. The detective stood up.

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed. He turned back to John. "I'll probably stay in here with Hamish for a little while, so good night, John."

"All right. 'Night, Sherlock. And goodnight, Hame." He waved at the little boy who tiredly moved his arm to wave back. John chuckled slightly at the little boy's efforts and at the eye rolling Sherlock gave him at Hamish's new nickname.

Shutting the door behind him, Sherlock moved around the bed and gently placed Hamish in the cot. The little boy looked up at his father with tired eyes.

"Good night, Hamish," Sherlock murmured.

"Nuuu... nii… Nigh', Da'," Hamish sighed quietly. Sherlock smiled gently. He reached into the cot, and gently stroked his thumb down Hamish's incredibly smooth cheek. The little boy leaned into Sherlock's hand, closing his eyes briefly.

"Mmm," he hummed. Sherlock crawled into bed and scooted all the way to the left so that he could keep his hand in the cot.

Sherlock sat like that, laying his hand lightly on Hamish's back, waiting for him to fall asleep. But much later, when both father and son were still wide-awake, Sherlock sat up, leaning over to look at Hamish, who stared back with large, green eyes, an expectant - yet tired - look on his face.

"Well, what seems to be the problem, Hamish?" Sherlock asked lightly. He got off the bed, lifted Hamish out of the cot, and pulled him close to his chest. "Can't sleep, hmm? Well... how about a little conversation? That's the best thing for sleepless nights," he murmured quietly. Sherlock began to gently rub circles on Hamish's back as he continued talking. "Well I suppose I should start out by apologizing for the craziness you've been brought in to. I know you don't know it yet, but my life - well, our life, now - can get kind of chaotic sometimes... You'll have to excuse, that I'm afraid. But other than that, it's pretty nice." Sherlock's deep, baritone voice filled the otherwise-silent room. He began walking around the small space, silently pacing back and forth.

Hamish watched his father as he spoke, soothed by his voice and the gentle pacing. He blinked slowly, and leaned in closer, raising his little arms up as he did so. Sherlock scooted Hamish upwards slightly. Tiredly, the little boy wrapped his arms around his father's neck, pressing his tiny head just above the detective's collarbone. A small sigh escaped his lips as he leaned into Sherlock, resting his head heavily against the base of his father's neck, another wave of tiredness sweeping over him. Tenderly, he grabbed onto the back of Sherlock's collar with one hand, as the other curled into a tiny fist, resting against the skin on the back of his father's neck.

Sherlock continued talking, noticing how Hamish's eyelids started to flutter lightly. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I suppose you'll be meeting other people soon enough. People like Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and my brother, unfortunately..."

Sherlock turned his gaze to Hamish.

Upon hearing his father stop, Hamish tiredly peered up at Sherlock's face. His eyebrows pulled together ever so slightly, and, using his last bit of strength, he reached up with the hand that was not currently wrapped around Sherlock's collar. Very gently, little Hamish touched his father's lips, tapping lightly with one finger, silently asking his father to continue.

As Hamish's little finger continued to tap lightly on his lips, Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of love swell in his chest. He stopped pacing, and began gently swaying back and forth. Granting Hamish's request, Sherlock began to speak again, whispering so quietly that only Hamish could hear.

"I'm going to be here for you, Hamish. Always... Always. I know what it's like to be alone... To feel like you're alone... Unloved... And no one, no one, should ever feel like that. No one should ever be alone. I'll be here for you, Hamish. Always. I promise... I promise."

At his father's promise, Hamish silently fell asleep. The little boy's hand gently fell from Sherlock's lips, brushing over them lightly, until it came to rest just below the hollow on the detective's cheek.

"Always..." A hot tear slid down Sherlock's cheek, and landed on the sleeping boy's hand. "Always..."

Gently, Sherlock turned his head, trying not to move Hamish's hand, and pressed a tender kiss to the little boy's forehead. He felt another tear slip from his eyes... With incredible tenderness, Sherlock lifted Hamish's hand from his face, and planted a gentle kiss to the incredibly tiny fingers. In his sleep, Hamish silently wrapped his tiny hand around his father's thumb, and let out a gentle sigh, his finger's tightening ever so slightly.

Sherlock stayed that way the whole night, gently swaying, tenderly holding the little boy close to him as he slept soundly in the detective's embrace. Sherlock never let go of his son's tiny hand, keeping it safely wrapped in his own...

Hamish slept peacefully that night, resting gently against Sherlock, his father's comfort chasing away all the nightmares...


	9. A Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I would really appreciate some feedback on this chapter; I was a little unsure about it. Suggestions are always welcome! I just want to know what you think. Thanks guys! Have a great weekend! =)

The next few days at 221B went by rather smoothly. John and Sherlock had managed to put away the many, many bags of shopping, and found a home for each item. They had gotten a few additional items, as well, such as books and coloring utensils for Hamish.

The flat mates had also baby-proofed the flat; they had cleaned up and gotten rid of (most of) Sherlock's experiments, covered all of the electrical outlets, gotten a gate for the stairs, and made sure anything and everything that could potentially cause harm to little Hamish had been discarded or taken care of.

John took a few days off work to help Sherlock start to get a schedule in place, as well as to get Hamish aquatinted with him and more used to him being around.

Over those few days, Mrs. Hudson had returned from holiday, to be met by a very sheepish-looking Sherlock. At first, Mrs. Hudson was quite furious with Sherlock (and John for letting him do such a thing), but as she saw the little boy for the first time, she became much more keen on the idea of having Hamish around, and agreed to the let the little boy stay on the one condition that she wouldn't have to babysit too much.

There had been no new leads with the case, and Sherlock was becoming slightly antsy. He was currently pacing across the floor of the living room, twiddling with his fingers, as John sat in his chair reading a newspaper. Hamish was seated on the floor just in front of John's seat, coloring a picture with his new crayons.

Sherlock passed by John, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. John was becoming more and more on edge by Sherlock's pacing. Hamish was not fazed, though, as all of his attention was currently focused on the drawing in front of him; his bottom lip protruded slightly as he concentrated.

Sherlock passed by again, his robe fluttering slightly as he did so.

"Bloody hell!" John declared, thrusting his paper down onto his lap. Sherlock stopped his pacing at the doctor's outburst and turned to look at John.

"What?" he asked, the agitation clear in his voice.

Upon hearing his father's tone, Hamish briefly peered up from his drawing, but, concluding that there was nothing interesting going on, returned to scribbling clumsily on the paper.

"Could you please stop that pacing?" John asked, exasperated.

"I need something to do, John! I can't stand it!" Sherlock ran his hands through his hair; the tendons popped out as he flipped his hair with much more gusto than was necessary.

"Well," John began, trying to think of something for his flat mate to do. "You could always play with Hamish," he suggested.

With a loud huff, Sherlock fell onto the couch. "I would, but—really John, I had hoped your observation skills would be better by now—he's currently preoccupied at the moment." Sherlock gestured lazily towards Hamish, who was still drawing. John rolled his eyes.

"All right. Well… You could… Um…" he trailed off, his eyebrows coming together as he tried to think of an activity to give Sherlock.

"See!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "You can't even come up with anything!" He pressed his hands over is face as he groaned dramatically. "John, what are we supposed to do if—"

"A birthday!" John shouted triumphantly, and startling Hamish in the process.

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and turned to stare at John with a look on his face that clearly said, "Dear god, you have officially lost it, John Watson."

Seeing the look, John shook his head, and quickly began to explain himself. "No, no, no. For Hamish." Upon hearing his name, and still startled by John's outburst, Hamish forgot his picture and reached his arms towards Sherlock.

"Daaa," he stated. He had started to try and use Sherlock's chair to pull himself up onto his chubby legs. Situated, he turned and looked at Sherlock as John waited for the detective to get up and pick up the little boy. When Sherlock made no effort, but rather just kept staring at his flat mate incredulously, John rolled his eyes, scooped up Hamish and carried him over to the couch, where he sat him down on Sherlock's chest.

He continued explaining as he stepped back slightly.

"It just occurred to me!" he said enthusiastically. "So Hamish just turned one a little while ago, right? And I seriously doubt it was celebrated or even recognized. So we should give him a party of our own! Right here. It could be really fun, and it would give you something to do!" John said cheerfully.

Now understanding John's meaning, Sherlock began to absentmindedly play with Sherlock's hair, contemplating the suggestion.

Over the last few days, Hamish had taken quite a liking to playing with Sherlock's neck and collarbone, gently tracing them with his tiny fingers. He particularly enjoyed tracing the little the "V" that formed just below Sherlock's neck. As he listened to Sherlock and John talk excitedly, the little boy began to subconsciously trace the skin with his tiny fingers.

John couldn't help but smile fondly as he watched Sherlock absentmindedly play with Hamish's hair, and, likewise, watch Hamish play absentmindedly with the gap at the bottom of his father's neck.

"Well," Sherlock began, still contemplating, "I suppose that doesn't sound like a bad idea. It hadn't even occurred to me to celebrate Hamish's first birthday, to be honest. But now that I think about it, it sounds like an excellent idea. Very good, John! Yes! I agree with you, we should throw a tiny party for him."

"Great!" John said. "We should start inviting people. Let's see… There's Mary, Lestrade…" John began to count the people off on his fingers making a mental list of who to notify. He continued, "Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, of course, Mycroft and—no, Sherlock. Don't' roll your eyes at me! Mycroft should be able to see Hamish. I mean, after all, he is his uncle."

"Poor boy," Sherlock muttered under his breath, which received a slight chuckle from John. He continued speaking.

"Well, I think that should do it, then. I'll start contacting everyone." John whipped out his phone, and hurried to the kitchen to begin making calls. Sherlock watched as John left, and then turned his attention back to the little boy sitting on his chest as he noticed that Hamish's finger was no longer moving, but rather just resting against his skin.

"What's the matter Hamish?" Sherlock asked as he saw the confused look on his face. He couldn't help but smile at how precious the little boy looked. Hamish pointed to himself, and then looked into the kitchen, in the direction of John.

"We're going to throw a party for you," Sherlock said excitedly. He stood up of the couch, and began to walk around, gently bouncing Hamish as he went. "That means we're going to celebrate your birthday, which is the day your were born. You're going to meet several new people like Molly, and Lestrade, and unfortunately, my brother." Sherlock's features scrunched slightly as he made a disgusted look when he said his brother's name. Looking back at Hamish, who was clearly overwhelmed by the information Sherlock had just thrown at him, the frown left his face, and was replaced with a smile.

"You'll see in a few days," Sherlock chuckled. Satisfied with this last comment, Hamish leaned forward, resting his head on Sherlock's chest. He took the silky fabric of Sherlock's robe between his fingers and began to tenderly move his fingers across the smooth surface.

Several days later, the air was practically buzzing with excitement. John, who'd essentially arranged and planned the entire event was very pleased with his work, and excited to celebrate Hamish's first birthday with him.

Sherlock, though excited for Hamish, was slightly anxious when it came to all of the people John had invited being in tiny flat at once; he hoped Hamish wouldn't be overwhelmed by the whole thing.

Hamish had no clue what was going on. He had a sense that something exciting was going to happen, but he didn't know that it had anything to do with himself. Still, though, sensing the change in mood, the little boy had been happy all day, giggling, laughing and smiling much more than he usually did.

Mary was the first to come, arriving slightly early so as to get a little time with John and to meet Hamish; the two had not seen each other yet.

John and Mary laughed as they walked up the steps into the flat. Upon hearing the two, Sherlock, who had been watching television with Hamish, scooped the little boy up, and turned the TV off, much to the chagrin of Hamish.

With Hamish in his arms, Sherlock moved towards the entrance to the flat just as Mary and John, still laughing, reached the top of the stairs.

"Hello, Mary," Sherlock said as cheerfully as he could. Mary smiled back in reply. "This is Hamish. I don't believe you've met him yet." Upon hearing his name, Hamish, who had been looking back over Sherlock's shoulder, willing the TV to turn back on, turned back so he was facing forward. Upon seeing Mary, he instantly snuggled back into Sherlock, gripping onto his father with two tiny hands.

"Hamish, this is Mary. She's John's..." He paused slightly before continuing. "Significant other. She's nice. Would you like to meet her?" Hamish peered at Mary, who smiled warmly at the little boy. Slowly, he gave a tiny nod.

Sherlock began to pass Hamish over to Mary. The little boy allowed it, but made sure to hold on tightly to Sherlock's hand the entire time he was in Mary's arms.

Eventually, Hamish concluded that Mary was nice, and became much more relaxed. After Hamish was no longer frightened of her, Mary passed the little boy back to Sherlock.

"He's a darling," she said, still smiling sweetly at Hamish, who was now back in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock smiled in reply as John led Mary into the kitchen. Sherlock sauntered back into the living room and plopped down on the couch.

The two continued to watch cartoons until the rest of the guests arrived. First Lestrade, then Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, a rather large chocolate cake in tow. Mycroft arrived next, impeccably dressed as always.

When Molly finally got to the flat, Hamish was drawing on the floor, while Sherlock was looking something up on his phone.

Molly entered the flat, and Hamish turned up to look at her, expecting her to be another nice guest. Upon seeing her, though, Hamish's eyes widened with fear.

"Da!" he screamed. Drawing forgotten, he desperately tried to crawl towards Sherlock as quickly as he could.

Hearing Hamish's cry, Sherlock looked up, concerned. He saw Hamish hurrying towards him, a terrified look on his face. Worried, Sherlock picked the little boy up, and held him close to his chest.

"What Hamish, what's wrong? What is it?" he asked frantically. The little boy was shaking in Sherlock's arms. In response, he pointed towards Molly, who was now frozen at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock understood instantly. Molly was of medium build, medium height, and had light brown hair… To Hamish, she looked like his abuser.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock said sadly. He pulled the little boy to his chest. Still shaking, with tears threatening to spill over, Hamish leaned into Sherlock's embrace, resting his head against his father's chest.

"Hamish, that's Molly. She's not the one who hurt you. And she's not going to hurt you. I promise, I promise. I will never, ever let anyone hurt you…"

Hamish let out a quiet sigh. As he gripped onto Sherlock's shirt.

"Do you understand, Hamish? No one is ever going to hurt you again. You're safe," Sherlock whispered into the little boy's curls.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed in reply, soothed by Sherlock's words, and quickly forgetting his scare with Molly. Sherlock began to rub circles on Hamish's back.

"Shh, it's all okay. Nothing's going to happen." Hamish nodded against Sherlock's chest and looked up. A single tear had fallen down his cheek.

With a sad smile, Sherlock gently brushed the tear away with his thumb.

"There," he murmured, "All better." Hamish let his head rest against Sherlock's hand.

"Mmm," he agreed.

Hamish had eventually gotten used to Molly, and actually enjoyed her quite a bit once he got past the initial fright. Though he didn't mind being held by everyone else, he preferred being in Sherlock's arms, so that's where he spent most of his time.

The adults sat around and talked – meaning John, Mycroft, Mary, Lestrade, and Molly all talked together, and Sherlock sat off to the side, bouncing Hamish lightly on his knee, playing with the little boy's auburn curls.

When it came time for Hamish to blow out the candle on his cake, the little boy was very excited, practically bouncing in Sherlock's' arms as he bent forward and attempted to blow out the single candle. Chuckling at Hamish's efforts, Sherlock blew slightly at the same time Hamish did and the candle died out.

Very proud of himself, Hamish clapped his hands together, and turned around to look at Sherlock who was beaming with happiness.

Next were presents, which Hamish had received a ridiculous amount of.

Everyone placed all of his or her presents in a big pile on the floor of the sitting room. Sherlock sat down, and set Hamish between his crossed legs. The little boy seemed overwhelmed by the large pile of boxes in front of him, and, at first, had no idea what he was supposed to do. But upon guidance from Sherlock and John, who opened the first present for him, the little boy began to eagerly tear away the wrapping with his chubby hands.

After the many, many, presents had been opened (which ranged from baby garments to stuffed animals to books on parenting), Hamish was worn out from all of the excitement. He slept in Sherlock's arms as everyone continued chatting happily.

By the time Hamish woke up again, it had been suggested by Lestrade that everyone go out for a pint. The other guests, though enjoying themselves, were slightly anxious to be able to do something more 'adult.'

Everyone got their coats, and said goodbye to Hamish, who waved a happy goodbye to everyone as they scurried out the door.

John and Mary left last.

"Bye, Hame. Happy birthday, little man. Hope you had a good time." He pressed a little kiss to Hamish's cheek and turned to leave, holding hands with Mary.

"See you, Sherlock. Be back later." He waved a goodbye.

"Goodbye, John, Mary." Sherlock called after the two as the door shut.

Sherlock turned to Hamish, who was resting on his hip. "Ugh! Finally!" he exclaimed, over-exaggerating the words, which made Hamish laugh. "I thought they'd never leave!" Smiling as Hamish giggled, Sherlock bounced the little boy a few times.

"Well, then, Hamish, what shall we do? Do you want to draw, or play with some of your new toys? We still have a while before you should go to bed, we can do anything."

Hamish thought for a moment, holding onto Sherlock's lapel for balance.

"No," he said decidedly, giving a little nod of his head.

"No? Okay," said Sherlock. He moved over and sat on the couch. "Well what do you want to do? Watch television?" He made to grab the remote, but Hamish reached and lightly held onto his hand.

"No, Da."

"Well then what do you want to do?"

In response, Hamish moved both of his hands to Sherlock's chest and gave a gentle shove. Obeying Hamish's request, Sherlock laid back on the couch, stretching out over it. Hamish gave a satisfied nod of his head as he sat atop Sherlock's stomach.

"Okay," Sherlock said, smiling at Hamish's cute efforts. "Now what?" Hamish scooted forward, and positioned himself so he was sitting as close to Sherlock's face as he could get.

Curious, Sherlock moved his hand and began to play with Hamish's curls again. "What now?"

Hamish stuck his bottom lip out slightly, and reached behind him, trying to grab Sherlock's hand. The detective moved his hand up and let Hamish grab it with his tiny fingers.

Holding Sherlock's hand in both of his, Hamish moved all of his father's fingers away so that only his pointer finger was sticking out. Then, very slowly, he moved Sherlock's hand towards his face, and pointed his hand at his nose.

Confused as to what Hamish was doing, Sherlock stared at Hamish, a quizzical look on his face.

Unfazed by his father's confusion, Hamish then let go of Sherlock's hand, and moved forward, haphazardly placing one hand on Sherlock's cheek, and one against the detective's lips. Trying to balance, he moved one of hands and placed it on top of Sherlock's nose. He tapped lightly a few times.

"Da?" he asked plainly, as if what he'd just done explained everything.

"What, Hamish? That's my nose. You pointed to your nose. Oh! Do you want to know what this is?" Sherlock reached up and gently tapped the tip of Hamish's nose with one long finger.

Giggling, and nodding fervently, happy his father had caught on, Hamish tapped Sherlock's nose again.

"Nose," Sherlock said slowly.

"Nnnnn… No…" Hamish tried to repeat what Sherlock just said.

"Very good try, Hamish, " he said happily. Hamish smiled widely; glad he was getting praise for his efforts.

Next, the little boy moved his hands to each of Sherlock's cheeks.

"Da?" he asked.

"Cheeks. Those are called your cheeks." Once again, Hamish tried to repeat. Sherlock smiled fondly. Hamish, his face now serious in concentration, moved both of his hands up and down Sherlock's cheek, following the sharp line his cheekbones made. Letting go with one hand, Hamish began tracing one of Sherlock's cheeks with his finger. His other hand pushed down lightly on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock watched as Hamish focused all of his attention to tracing his cheek. Sherlock felt that odd sensation start to make his chest grow warm as he gazed at the wistful look on Hamish's' face. His already-attractive features somehow seem to become even more beautiful as the little boy stared intently at Sherlock's cheek; his hair became slightly darker in the minimal light. His dark green eyes seemed to sparkle and glow. Sherlock noticed for the first time how Hamish's eyes had lines of gold shooting throughout the dark green irises. The sight made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat. He noticed the gentle planes of Hamish's face and how smooth and clear his chubby cheeks were, and he felt a tremendous amount of love swell in his chest.

Hamish stopped tracing and flattened his hand out so that his tiny fingers were splayed across the hollow below Sherlock's cheekbone. Satisfied, Hamish smiled widely; the pensive look replaced by one of sheer joy.

Next, Hamish moved to Sherlock's eyes, gently tracing his eyelids as the detective closed his eyes to allow Hamish to thoroughly examine his eyes. That led Hamish to notice Sherlock's' eyebrows for the first time. He gently traced them, too, running his finger along their shape and then gasped slightly as he realized he must have a pair of eyebrows, as well. Sherlock smiled widely and couldn't help but laugh at the wonder on Hamish's face when he touched his chubby hands to his own forehead and realized he had his own set of eyebrows.

Hamish spent several minutes just moving his hands over his forehead, as if to check and make sure his newly-discovered-eyebrows were not going to leave.

Eventually content, Hamish began to touch the rest of his father's face, curious about what everything was; he gently tapped on Sherlock's ears, and forehead, and hair, and each time the detective would tell Hamish what the body part was and would repeat the name over and over so the little boy could try and repeat it.

Hamish was very excited to learn that his own hair was similar to his father's. He ended up playing with Sherlock's curls for quite a while, a pensive look returning to his sweet features as he twirled a lock of hair between his small fingers. Sherlock was actually enjoying himself. He enjoyed telling Hamish the name of each new body part, and never got tired of the excited look on his son's face when the little boy learned what everything was. Though he never would admit it, Sherlock found the touch of Hamish's tiny fingers against his skin to be incredibly sweet.

Once he got bored with twirling his father's hair between his fingers, Hamish decided it was time to give a thorough examination of Sherlock's hands. He tried to hold them up, but, upon realizing how heavy they were, decided to just let one of Sherlock's large hands rest in his lap.

Once Hamish had positioned everything where he wanted (with a little help from Sherlock), Hamish turned to the detective. He lightly tapped on Sherlock's palm.

"That's my hand, Hamish. Can you say that? Hand."

Looking at Sherlock, Hamish began to try and pronounce the word. "Huu... Haaaa..."

"Hand," the detective repeated slowly.

"Hand!" Hamish squealed triumphantly, and, deciding Sherlock's neck was too far away, he grasped his father's hand tightly and clutched it close to his tiny chest, giving it a tight hug.

"Very good, Hamish!" Sherlock said enthusiastically, and giggling slightly as Hamish grasped tightly to his arm. Hamish let go, ending the hug, and placed it delicately back in his lap.

Then, as he had done so many times before, Hamish turned his attention back to his father's hand, inspecting it. He started with the palm.

The little boy's eyes widened slightly as he saw the lines that patterned the inside of his father's hand. Very carefully, as if he was afraid if he touched or rubbed them too hard they would disappear, Hamish traced each line on the palm of Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock let him, finding Hamish's gentle touch soothing. He closed his eyes as Hamish began to lightly trace the outside of his hand, moving his fingers over Sherlock's knuckles, and giggling slightly at the little gap that was situated below Sherlock's thumb.

"Look, Hamish," said Sherlock, opening his eyes. He flexed his hand, making the tendons pop up under the skin. Hamish let out a quiet "Ohhh," of amazement as he ducked his head closer to Sherlock's hand, and lightly shook it (as best he could), silently telling his father to do it again. Sherlock flexed again, laughing when Hamish quickly drew his head back, his mouth open in what was clearly pure amazement.

He turned to his own tiny hand, and flexed. But when nothing happened, he frowned slightly and turned to Sherlock.

"Da?" he asked scowling, upset that his hand was not doing the same thing as his father's.

Sherlock chuckled. "It's okay, Hamish. Your hands are just much smaller. They'll do that eventually when you get older." When the little boy, clearly not consoled, continued to glare at his tiny fingers, Sherlock reached forward, took Hamish's hand in his own, and pressed a tiny kiss to the back of his fingers. "It's okay that they don't do that, Hamish. They're not supposed to yet. It's perfectly normal." The little boy turned his attention to Sherlock, as he began to gradually lower his hand, the frown fading away at Sherlock's words. "Besides," the detective added, smiling, "I like you just the way you are." He leaned forward, and blew a raspberry against Hamish's neck, launching the little boy into a fit of giggles.

When Hamish finally calmed down, his hand now forgotten, he remembered what he was doing, and thought about what he was going to inquire about next. Coming to a decision, the little boy pointed at his toes.

"Ah. Toes," Sherlock said, still smiling from Hamish's giggling.

He picked Hamish up and placed him in one arm as he leaned forward to take off his socks and shoes. He moved so he was sitting cross-legged, the placed the little boy between the gap in his legs and gently grabbed one of his chubby hands. Moving the fingers so that Hamish was pointing, Sherlock guided his chubby hand and helped him count each of his toes, saying the numbers out loud.

"One, two, three, four five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten." Hamish focused intently on Sherlock's words. Next, the detective moved to count Hamish's own incredibly cute and tiny toes. He counted out loud again as he gently touched Hamish's finger to each toe. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

Hamish seemed amazed as he realized he had the same number of toes as his father. The little boy gasped out loud, and clapped his hands together, smiling widely.

Happy at his son's amazement, Sherlock leaned back, resting his head against the arm of the couch again. Hamish was still beaming and playing with his own toes as Sherlock placed him back on his chest.

Calming down, Hamish began to think about what other things he needed to ask his father about. Remembering suddenly, Hamish tried to take his shirt off, but ended up getting tangled in the fabric.

"Daaa," he whined. Sherlock chuckled as he leaned forward and helped Hamish to pull off his shirt. He tossed the garment on the ground.

Shirt discarded, Hamish leaned over slightly and pointed to his bellybutton, then peered back up at his father expectantly.

"That's called your bellybutton, Hamish." Sherlock reached forward and gently tickled Hamish's bare belly with his fingertips. The little boy giggled, and then returned to the task at hand, which, currently, was to find his father's bellybutton.

Hamish scooted his tiny form back slightly, so he was sitting at the bottom of Sherlock's stomach and looked down, pressing his fingers against Sherlock's belly, expecting to find Sherlock's bellybutton. Upon seeing no such thing, though, the little boy began to panic. He hurriedly looked down at his own bellybutton, as if to check if he'd just imagined what he'd seen. But when he saw and felt it again, he turned back to look at Sherlock, tears filling his eyes.

"No, no, Hamish. Don't cry," the detective chuckled. "It's okay. I have one, too. See?"

He un-tucked his shirt from his trousers, and pulled the fabric up slightly to expose his bellybutton to Hamish.

The little boy let out a loud sigh of relief, and giggled as he began to play with Sherlock's belly. The detective couldn't help but giggle as well at the light tickling sensation.

"Oh!" Sherlock said suddenly. "Hamish, listen to this!" Excitedly, Sherlock undid a few of the buttons on his shirt and pulled it open slightly, exposing some of his bare chest. He then gently moved a very confused Hamish so he was lying down on his chest, and positioned him so his ear was placed just above his heart.

"Now be very quiet and still, and listen, and you'll hear what I mean."

All was silent for a few moments, and then Hamish heard a gentle 'thump' come from his father's chest. He jumped up at the noise, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth hanging open. He quickly looked back and forth between his father's face and his chest. Then, tentatively, he leaned back down, placing his ear tenderly against the exposed flesh. He remained completely still, waiting... Thump. The boy let out an excited squeal as he jumped up again. "Da!" he said in amazement. Bouncing slightly, he pointed to his own heart and motioned for Sherlock to listen.

Smiling widely, Sherlock leaned in and placed his ear against Hamish's smooth skin, just above his heart. When he heard the gentle beating of his son's heart, his own seemed to skip a beat, and he stayed where he was, listening to the gentle thumps.

"Da?" Hamish asked, now thoroughly worried that his father hadn't moved in a while, afraid that maybe he wasn't making the same thump his father had.

Feigning amazement, Sherlock quickly pulled back, shaking his head slightly.

"Wow, Hamish! You've got one, too!" he said enthusiastically. He placed his hand on Hamish's tiny chest, covering his heart as he laughed at the amazed look on the little boy's face. Hamish, now smiling widely, did the same and moved his hand under Sherlock's shirt and placed his hand just above Sherlock's heart.

Suddenly, though, Hamish quickly realized he had forgotten one thing, and gasped lightly. He stopped what he was doing and scurried up so he was sitting next to Sherlock's face. He sat up, moved both of his tiny hands and pressed them lightly to Sherlock's lips.

"Daa," he sighed in relief, happy he had remembered about his father's lips.

"Oh," Sherlock chuckled lightly under Hamish's hands. "Those are lips, Hamish."

The little boy nodded, not trying to repeat the word this time, and Sherlock watched as that same wistful look returned to his son's face. Slowly, Hamish moved one hand to the hollow just below Sherlock's cheek for balance, and then gently began to move his hand over his father's lips, trailing his finger over the skin.

"Hmm," Hamish hummed quietly. He flattened his hand across his father's lips, and looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "Daaa," he sighed quietly, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. He blinked slowly and Sherlock noticed for the first time how long his eyelashes were.

Tenderly, Sherlock pressed a kiss into Hamish's fingers.

"Happy birthday, Hamish," he whispered.

The little boy smiled slightly. He brushed his fingers over Sherlock's lips, moving his hand so it was now on his father's other cheek. Tenderly, the little boy leaned in and placed a precious kiss to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock's breath caught once again. The warmth in his chest seemed to spread through his entire body, his love for the little boy in front of him growing even more.

Then, almost as if he was understanding what his father was feeling, Hamish scooted back slightly, and grabbed Sherlock's hand. He moved it and placed it on his tiny chest, then slowly placed his hands over Sherlock's heart. "Daa," he sighed happily. Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of happiness flood through him at the tiny touch and he stared at Hamish, love in his ever-changing eyes.

A wave of tiredness swept over Hamish as he looked into Sherlock's eyes, and he fell forward slightly, leaning into his father's touch. His hand slid away from his father's skin as he laid down on Sherlock's chest.

Tenderly, Sherlock lifted Hamish into his arms, and got off the couch. He pulled Hamish close to his chest, his skin still warm from where the little boy's hands had been, and moved into his room.

He sat down on the bed and rolled over, deciding to let Hamish sleep with him that night. He moved so he was on his side, and clutched Hamish close, breathing in his sweet smell.

Sherlock felt the little boy's weight snuggle into him as Hamish began to fall asleep.

"Ni', Da," the little boy whispered into Sherlock's chest.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock whispered so quietly he wasn't sure if Hamish even heard it. Using his last bit of energy, Hamish moved his hand so it was resting once again over Sherlock's heart.

"Mmmm." With that, Hamish fell asleep, his body snuggled tightly against Sherlock, his hand still resting over his father's heart.

Sherlock fell asleep that night thinking that if he had learned one thing from that day, it was that Hamish had touched his heart... In more ways than one.


	10. The Case

It was several days after Hamish's birthday party, and Sherlock and the little boy were sat on the ground together, Sherlock watching Hamish intently as he scribbled on a piece of paper with his new crayons.

Both of their heads turned slightly towards the door as they heard it swing open. Lestrade appeared at the top of the steps, a folder in hand.

"Finally," Sherlock groaned, "something's happened. It's about time!" He stood up off the floor and turned back to Hamish, who was staring intently at Lestrade.

"Do you want to continue drawing, Hamish, or you do you want up with me?" The boy pondered this for a moment, scrunching his eyebrows together.

"Da," he said decidedly. He carefully placed the crayon on the ground, and then lifted his arms up at Sherlock. The detective walked over and scooped up the little boy.

"Hello again, Hamish. Do you remember me?" asked Lestrade, suspecting the little boy probably wouldn't recall their brief time together at the party. Hamish situated himself against Sherlock as he thought; his face contorting into a concentrated took. Both Lestrade and Sherlock smiled fondly at him, amused by his efforts.

Concluding that he did not remember ever seeing Lestrade, Hamish's features relaxed as he let out a tiny, "No."

Lestrade chuckled. "I assumed as much. My name is Greg." The Inspector reached his hand forward towards Hamish, who, suddenly frightened, flinched away, pressing his face against Sherlock's arm. Immediately, Lestrade pulled is hand back, looking at Sherlock with an apologetic face.

"Sorry," he said hurriedly, "I should have known, given the circumstances." Sherlock responded with what he hoped was a reassuring look as he turned his attention to Hamish whose face was pressed against his arm, the little boy's hands gripping tightly onto his shirt.

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked gently, urging the little boy to look at him. Hamish leaned back slightly, though he didn't loosen his grip on his father's shirt. Sherlock quickly became alarmed when he noticed silent tears were streaming down Hamish's face.

"Oh, Hamish…" he murmured, sadly, his eyebrows drawing together, forming a sad expression. Gently, he wiped the tears off of Hamish's face, brushing his thumb and the back of his fingers against the little boy's wet cheeks, clearing them of all the tears. Hamish blinked slowly with each brush of Sherlock's soft fingers against his wet skin.

Sherlock wiped away the last tear from his son's sweet face, and cradled his head in his hand. Hamish leaned into the touch, and closed his eyes slowly. "Daa," he sniffled, eyes still closed.

"I know. I know, Hamish. But you're all right… It's all okay now." Sherlock smiled sadly at the little boy, hoping to reassure him.

"Well…" Lestrade said awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'll just leave the file with you, then. Call me if and when you've got something." He placed the file on the arm of the couch. "Bye, Hamish. Sorry I scared you, bud." He said the last part more to Sherlock, who smiled in return.

"Thank you, Lestrade. I'll let you know when I've got something." Lestrade silently left the flat.

"Come on, then, Hamish. Let's have a look." Gently bouncing Hamish in his arms, Sherlock sauntered over to the couch, and sat down. Hamish balled his hands into fists, and rubbed them against his still-wet eyes, letting out a yawn as he did so.

"Do you want to go and take your nap a little early, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, smiling slightly as the little boy shook his head, contradicting himself as he yawned widely again.

Sherlock chuckled. "All right," he said skeptically, smiling warmly at Hamish, who tiredly leaned back against Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock reached for the file, and laid back, letting his head rest on the arm of the couch. He was careful to support Hamish's tiny body as he moved. He scooted Hamish gently so that the little boy was now sitting on his stomach, one hand grasping Sherlock's shirt, the other rubbing his eyes tiredly. He moved up and down with his father's breathing.

Minding Hamish's body, Sherlock moved the file so that it was in front of both him and Hamish. He opened the file.

Inside were several papers on the case and three pictures. Sherlock quickly skimmed the information. It seemed that three of the five children had recently been found in three different orphanages, none of which any of the children were originally abducted from. This would mean the kidnapper still had the ten and twelve year olds.

The four and eight year olds had been questioned, but only the eight year old remembered precise details; it seemed the four year old was very traumatized by the whole endeavor.

The little girl said that she had been approached at the orphanage by the kidnapper, who she described as short, skinny man, having short, blonde hair, and brown eyes. She said that the man had told her that he wanted to adopt her and take her home; that everything had been sorted and all she had to do was go with him. Excited at the prospect of finally having a home, she left with the man.

Next, the eight year old said the man led her to his black car, which she said 'smelled new.' He drove the little girl to his house. But, the girl noted, he drove to the back of the house where he quickly ushered her inside and into a basement-type room. He then locked her in. The four year old was also in the basement.

The little girl said that the basement was dark, smelled 'dirty' and had no carpet. There was a pile of blankets in one corner and a mattress in the middle of the room, as well as a bathroom.

The next day, the man came back down, took the four year old upstairs, and left the little girl alone in the basement. The kidnapper would routinely bring down food and water, but would never speak to the child. Several days later, the man had brought a new child into the basement, the ten year old who'd gone missing.

The next day, the little girl said, he came down, brought her upstairs into the house, which she recalls as being 'very pretty' and smelling sweet. She gave a description of how the man was dressed. She was bathed and dressed in new, nice clothes and was then led into a room which contained a woman, whom the little girl was instructed to call only 'mother.' The eight year old noted that the woman she was to call her mom was bald.

Sherlock's eyes lingered on the last description the girl gave... Bald... Cancer… Sherlock thought to himself, his mind whirring with this new information. He began to twirl a lock of Hamish's hair in his hand. The little boy's gaze had moved to the file in Sherlock's hand. He peered at it with heavy eyes.

Sherlock placed the file on his chest, and moved the information away so he could look at the pictures of the kids. He moved the file back to its previous position. Hamish stared at it again.

There were three pictures, one for each child. The thing Sherlock noticed at once was that the children (all female) bore an uncanny resemblance to one another; each had jet-black hair, light blue eyes, round features, and an all-together-attractive appearance.

Sherlock's gaze focused on the eight year old, then the four year old, and finally came to rest upon the little two year old's picture. His hands froze, and he felt a constricting pain in his chest.

The little girl in the picture, though female, looked strikingly like Hamish. Her eyes were a slightly darker blue than the other girls, making them appear close in color to Hamish's deep, sea green eyes. Her hair was cropped short, and her face shape was similar to Hamish's.

Hamish noticed that his father had stopped gently twirling his hair. Missing the feeling, he turned to Sherlock, about to voice his discontent when he noticed the detective staring at the file in his hands, a stricken look on his face. Now curious as to what had caused this look on Sherlock's face, the little boy moved his eyes and followed his father's gaze.

Hamish stared at the picture of the little girl. The tiredness suddenly forgotten, Hamish moved his hand up to the picture and placed his chubby hand against the little girl's cheek. His mouth opened slightly and his eyebrows pulled together. His fingers gently flexed against the waxy paper as he turned around to Sherlock, clearly understanding the resemblance.

"Da?" he asked, worry etched into his small voice.

Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't breath. The pain in his chest seemed to grow, spreading through him. His mind what racing with "what if's..."

What if this person had kidnapped males rather than females?

What if the kidnapper had gone to Hamish's orphanage first?

What if Hamish had been taken and locked in that cold, frightening basement. He would be so alone and frightened. I would never have found him. He wouldn't be with me right now... Not with me...

All of Sherlock's thoughts crashed into one another as he gasped for breath, leaning up sharply, jostling Hamish as he did so. The boy let out a startled gasp as he was abruptly moved.

His hands shaking slightly, Sherlock tossed the file away.

"Da?" Hamish asked frantically, panicking as Sherlock's breaths came in quick, short breaths. "Da!" the little boy began shouting, though his light, airy voice was not terribly loud. He continued to try to get his father's attention, but Sherlock's mind was racing, thoughts about the case and thoughts of Hamish being kidnapped, and not being here with him were muddling is brain, overwhelming it.

Giving up on shouting, Hamish, now greatly concerned, reached up as fast as he could, and touched both of his tiny hands to each side of Sherlock's face. He could only reach the hollow below Sherlock's cheek, but he tugged slightly, urging his father to look at him.

All at once, Sherlock's thoughts crashed to a halt. The pain that had been spreading through his veins disappeared as Hamish pressed his cool hands against his hot skin.

With that tiny touch, Sherlock thoughts stopped with a sudden realization: that Hamish was here, right now, safe with him. The proof of which was the little boy's tiny fingers resting on his face.

The detective closed his eyes, focusing all of his attention on Hamish's cool fingers against his cheeks.

Here... He's here... Safe... Eyes still closed, Sherlock reached up, and wrapped both of his hands around his son's incredibly small ones, releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

He gave a gentle squeeze, curling his fingers firmly around Hamish's hands.

"Da..." Hamish sighed sadly. "Da 'kay?" he asked, concerned, but still enjoying the reassuring squeeze from his father.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock whispered, "Yes... Yes, I'm okay. Thank you, Hamish." He opened his eyes to find the little boy staring at him intently. Gently, Sherlock brushed his fingertips across Hamish's cheek. Just as his father had done moments ago, Hamish closed his eyes, leaning into Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock moved some of Hamish's hair from his forehead, smiling slightly at the way the little boy was leaning into his hand. He noticed that all of Hamish's head could rest in only one of his hands. He smiled fondly at just how small the little boy was.

Hamish, still wanting to reassure Sherlock, though, let go of his father's cheek with one hand, moving it to the collar of Sherlock's shirt. Stretching his body, he leaned up and tenderly pressed his lips against his father's warm skin.

Sherlock's chest, previously constricted with pain, flooded with warmth as Hamish gently kissed his cheek. A large, sweet smile spread across the detective's face. "Thank, you Hamish," he said quietly. The little boy peered up at Sherlock, a small, hopeful smile playing on his tiny lips. Hamish then pointed to his own cheek.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed happily. "Right." He leaned towards Hamish, who scrunched his eyes together in preparation. Sherlock gently kissed Hamish's tiny cheek as one thought flashed through his mind again... Here...

Hamish smiled widely, his eyes sparkling.

"Da 'etter!" he cheered, throwing his chubby arms into the air, any previous trepidation forgotten. Sherlock smiled, now almost completely calm. He picked up Hamish, whose arms were still outstretched, and pulled him into a tight hug.

Happy to be held in Sherlock's arms, Hamish wrapped his own around Sherlock's neck (as best he could) and gave a miniscule squeeze, hugging his father back.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm all better now…"

The excitement finally over, and all of the adrenaline now gone, Hamish recalled how tired he was. Arms still wrapped around Sherlock's neck, he yawned widely into his father's dark curls. Sherlock chuckled and gently patted Hamish's back.

"Come on, Hamish. Time for your nap." Another wide yawn. Hamish's eyelids began to droop.

"Do you want to sleep here or in your cot?" Sherlock asked as Hamish's grip around his neck loosened.

Tiredly, Hamish tapped against Sherlock's shoulder in response. Sherlock smiled, and stood up off the couch. He gently moved Hamish up and started to walk around the flat, bouncing lightly as he did so. Hamish leaned into his father's hold, and snuggled against the curve of his neck.

The detective continued to walk around the flat, keeping Hamish snuggled tightly against him as he slept. And though he'd already solved the case, Sherlock opted to continue carrying the little boy in his arms, pressing light kisses into his hair as he slept, rather than call Lestrade to tell him his findings...


	11. Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers! All right, so this chapter... I do have to give a warning on this one for some pretty heavy stuff; there's violence in this one relating to Hamish. None of it is real; it all happens in the form of a dream Sherlock has, but it's still pretty angsty (and none of the violence is explicitly depicted, it's just implied, but is still pretty heavy). I felt this chapter was necessary, though, given the previous one. Know that it all ends in fluff, though! But just please be aware as you read this. Soooo... Thanks so much guys! Have a great weekend! (Sorry for talking so much!)

Sherlock had informed Lestrade of his findings; obviously the kidnapper was an attorney (clear from his outfit and car) named Alex Bateman (Sherlock had looked up any attorneys who worked in the local area, contacted their bosses, and narrowed it down to anyone who had a wife suffering from cancer). At that point, he was directed to a Mr. Alex Bateman, whose wife of seven years was suffering from terminal cancer.

Sherlock had also determined that his wife, Dawn Bateman, had persuaded Alex to kidnap the children for her. And the reasoning behind all of this was so that she could 'raise' a child and experience being a mother before she died, hence the similarity between the children's appearance, as well as the gradual increase in age; the children, portrayed a single child—her child— were supposed to be aging, so that Dawn could fantasize that she had at least been able to experience motherhood before she died. So, granting his dying wife's last wish, Alex had found children who looked very similar in appearance, kidnapped them from orphanages where he knew they wouldn't be missed, and brought them home so his wife could 'raise a child.'

Lestrade thanked Sherlock over and over for his findings, and quickly made the proper arrests.

For the first time, Sherlock was glad to be rid of this case; he was still upset about the resemblance between the children and Hamish, and the thought of What if… kept popping into his head. He tried to carry on as usual, though, and was careful not to let his anxiety show through to John; he didn't want to have to share his fears with anyone.

Several days later, Sherlock finally thought he'd gotten over the fright of the case. He calmed down considerably, and spent most of the day playing with Hamish, helping him to draw an uncountable number of pictures, but praising the little boy on each, nevertheless.

However, it was that night that the detective had his first nightmare…

Sherlock was lying on the floor of his bedroom. His head hurt. He reached up, and felt that his hair was sticky with blood. He tried to think straight, sitting up slowly. His breathing stopped as he suddenly remembered: he'd been putting Hamish in his cot when he'd been hit in the head with a blunt object.

Already sensing that Hamish had been taken, Sherlock stood up, and fled down the stairs and out the front door, all the while shouting frantically, "Hamish? Hamish?!"

He ran out onto the street and saw a man, carrying Hamish over his shoulder, getting into a cab. Hamish was screaming with all of his might, calling out for his father. Upon seeing Sherlock run out, an infinitesimal amount of hope could be seen shining in the little boy's dark green eyes.

"Daaa!" he screamed, desperately trying to kick and fight and squirm his way out of his captor's arms. "Da! Daa!" He stretched his arms toward Sherlock, frantically trying to reach his father.

"Hamish! Hamish I'm coming! I'm coming!" Sherlock yelled. He ran as quickly as he could towards Hamish, but just as he reached his hands towards the little boy, his fingertips almost brushing against Hamish's, the man stepped into the cab and it zoomed away, pulling the little boy away with it.

"NO! No! HAMISH! Hamish, please! Please, no!" Sherlock fell to his knees as he felt an unbearable weight crush down on his chest. He couldn't breath. He couldn't' see. The weight changed to pain, and, gasping for breath, and groaning from the unimaginable amount of pain coursing through his veins, Sherlock stood up, and tried to run after the cab, which by now was now long gone.

"No… No… Nooo…" he kept breathing as he ran. Eventually the pain and weight became too much to bear, and Sherlock fell to the ground, crashing to the pavement.

"Daaa!" Hamish's screams echoed in Sherlock's head. He let out a sob at the sound of his son crying out...

Suddenly, Hamish's cries still ringing in his ears, everything began to spin, and then Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard. The Inspector was talking to him, someone, probably John, was rubbing his back, but none of that was registering in Sherlock's mind. All he heard was Hamish's cries repeating over and over, and all he saw was the utterly broken look on Hamish's face just as he was pulled into the cab… Pulled away from his father. Sherlock could see all of the emotions that had flashed through his son's eyes in that moment: fear, sadness, terror, and brokenness… Pure and utter brokenness…

Somewhere a phone was ringing, the noise loud and obnoxious. It made Sherlock's head pound. He barely noticed as Lestrade hurried over to it and picked it up. Sherlock saw the Inspector's face drop, his eyes filling with regret.

No… No… Please, please... He can't, can't be... No...

"No," Sherlock whispered. He stood up and stumbled over Lestrade, fear gripping his whole body. He grasped onto Lestrade's jacket with both hands and began to beg, "Please… Please, no. Please!"

In response to Sherlock's begging, Lestrade pulled the detective into a tight hug, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. You did all you could."

"No," he gasped. A pain rippled through him. He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his chest. Sobs were ripping though his body, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn't breath, he couldn't think. Couldn't feel anything but a completely unbearable amount of sadness and pain.

"Hamish," he choked. "I'm so-sorry… I'm so sorry!"

Everything began to spin around him again, and then he was no longer in Lestrade's office, but lying on cold concrete. His eyes fell upon a small mound a few feet away, covered with a sheet.

"Oh no… NO!" Sherlock moaned, another sob ripping through him. His heart seemed to constrict. Cries shaking his body, Sherlock crawled towards the little mound. With shaking fingers, he pulled away the sheet.

"No," he whimpered as he stared into the lifeless eyes of his son—his Hamish.

A sadness and pain that no words can describe filled his entire being, and he yelled out, sobs shaking his body as he stared at the little boy.

Tenderly, as if he was afraid he would hurt him, Sherlock scooped up Hamish, cradling him in his arms. Impossibly, the little boy's already-tiny form seemed even smaller in Sherlock's arms. His eyes had shut, almost giving him the appearance that he was sleeping peacefully.

Sherlock ducked closer to Hamish, and began whispering into the little boy's silky hair, "It's okay. It's okay, Hamish. Daddy's here now… I'm here. You're safe, you're safe. It's okay. It's okay," he whispered, placing tender kisses to Hamish's hair and forehead.

"Daddy's here, daddy's here. It's all okay." He began gently rocked back and forth on the hard floor, as if to console both the little boy in his arms and himself. Knowing, though, that his efforts and his words were fruitless, Sherlock's features contorted as he dared to look at Hamish's face. He fell onto the ground, and clutched Hamish to his chest, weeping into the little boy's hair. His cries echoed in the room as he sobbed over and over again, "I'm so sorry, Hamish. I'm so sorry..."

And then, just like that, Hamish disappeared from his grasp, leaving Sherlock all by himself on the concrete floor. He heard one last "Daa!" before…

"NOO!" Sherlock was jolted awake by his own scream. Instantly, he threw himself to the other side of the bed, and frantically looked into the cot.

Upon seeing Hamish sleeping soundly, Sherlock quickly slid out of bed, and pressed both of his hands over his eyes, as he sobbed out a quiet, "Thank God." He began to cry, relief rushing through him. He sat back down on the bed, hands still covering his eyes as he sobbed silently. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

Eventually, his breathing began to return to normal, and his heart rate slowed.

Wiping his eyes with both hands, Sherlock turned and reached into the cot. Gingerly, he pulled a still-sleeping Hamish out of the cot, and hugged him to his chest. He placed one hand on the back of Hamish's head, and began to gently play with the auburn curls.

Sensing his father's embrace, Hamish leaned into the detective, resting his tiny cheek against Sherlock's chest. Glad to be safely tucked in his father's arms, Hamish took a deep breath and let out a small sigh as he exhaled.

As he felt Hamish breathe in arms, Sherlock began to weep again, a new wave of relief flooding over him. He pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's temple, flattening some his son's unruly curls as he did so.

Hamish stirred slightly at the kiss, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Da?" he asked tiredly, talking into his father's shirt.

Upon hearing Hamish's tiny voice, Sherlock scooted the little boy up so his head was resting against his neck. He turned, and pressed another delicate kiss to Hamish's cheek.

"Daddy's here…" he whispered into Hamish's hair. "I'm here. Everything's all right now," Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to Hamish. He let out an unsteady breath, which resulted in his own body shaking slightly. He sniffled, and gently turned his head so he was talking into Hamish's cheek. He whispered to the little boy, who had closed his eyes in an effort to fall asleep again, "I'm sorry I woke you, Hamish."

Upon hearing his father's voice again, Hamish tiredly opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. The moonlight streaming in from the window danced off of the little boy's eyes, making them glow slightly as he opened them. Sherlock gasped, momentarily frozen by the beauty of his son.

As he looked into Hamish's dark green irises, the adrenaline began to leave his body, as he was now fully reassured that Hamish was safe and sound.

"Mmm... 'Kay, Da..." Hamish replied tiredly, closing his eyes once again as he leaned into Sherlock.

Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock leaned in, and placed a gentle kiss to Hamish's nose; letting his lips linger against the soft, cool skin. His wet, tear-stained cheek brushed against Hamish's, leaving a small wet mark against the little boy's cheek.

Gasping slightly at the sensation, Hamish opened his eyes quickly and looked up at his father. For the first time the little boy noticed Sherlock's very wet face.

"No!" he gasped. Frantically, Hamish leaned forward, his little face scrunched up in a combination of worry, sadness and fright.

"Hamish, it's all right, I'm okay," Sherlock whispered, trying to reassure the little boy when he saw the worried look on his face. The detective stopped speaking, though, as he felt Hamish's tiny hands press against his lips.

"No, Da," the little boy said, silencing Sherlock as he tapped his fingers lightly against his father's lips. He then pointed to himself to with one hand, as if to say it was his turn to do something.

"Okay, Hamish. Go ahead," Sherlock murmured quietly against the little boy's fingers. Hamish turned his attention to his father's cheeks, and Sherlock couldn't help put frown slightly as he saw the sad look that filled his son's eyes upon seeing the tears on his face.

Slowly, Hamish moved one hand until it was resting against Sherlock's collarbone so he could balance as he moved his other hand to his father's face. Tenderly, he brushed his chubby fingers over Sherlock's sharp cheekbone, wiping some tears away as he did so. He then repeated the action for the other cheek, brushing away his father's tears. He continued to wipe away the proof of Sherlock's sadness as he tenderly brushed each tear from the detective's face.

Sherlock smiled at the sensation of Hamish's chubby fingers against his cheeks, brushing away his tears and sadness. He closed his eyes; his son's tiny, cool fingers felt soothing and reassuring against his hot skin. Not even realizing he was doing it, Sherlock leaned into Hamish's gentle touch. He took a deep breath, and exhaled, another wave of relief washing over him as Hamish's hand wiped away another tear.

Sherlock continued to sit on the bed, keeping his eyes closed as Hamish wiped away each and every tear, until there was just one left resting on his father's cheek. With a determined, yet sad look in his eyes, Hamish took one tiny finger and very gently rubbed away Sherlock's last tear. He let his hand rest against the detective's cheekbone as he turned to look into his father's eyes.

"Oh, Daa," he sighed sadly, brushing his hand against Sherlock's cheek again, as if to wipe away another invisible tear.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked sadly into Hamish's intense green irises. Not satisfied yet, the little boy leaned forward, stretching his body as he did so, and planted two light kisses against Sherlock's eyelids, as if to permanently signify the end of his sadness.

When he finished, Hamish relaxed his body and rested his cheek against Sherlock's. The little boy closed his eyes as he tenderly whispered again, "Oh, Daa…"

Smiling sadly, Sherlock pressed a kiss into Hamish's dark curls.

"Thank you, Hamish. Thank you so very, very much," he whispered.

"Mmm," Hamish murmured against Sherlock's cheek.

The detective placed his hand against the back of Hamish's head, and gently kissed the little boy's cheek.

"Mmm..."

After several moments, after he'd thought Hamish had already drifted off into sleep again, Sherlock heard the little boy speak, his voice just a whisper.

"Da?" he asked quietly, talking against Sherlock's cheek.

"Yes, Hamish?" he answered, his voice just a murmur.

He felt Hamish's little hands pressing against his chest. He removed his hand from the little boy's head, and moved it so it was resting lightly against his back. He was careful to support Hamish as he leaned back in his arms.

The little boy's face scrunched together for a moment, deep in thought, and then relaxed again as he remembered his question. He pointed at Sherlock's face, and tapped the detective's jaw with one tiny finger.

"What, Da?" he asked curiously, a hint of worry in his eyes and voice.

Knowing what Hamish was asking, Sherlock let out a sad sigh. He stood up, getting off the bed, and moved Hamish so that he was resting just above his waist. Waiting for his response, Hamish held onto the back of Sherlock's arm with one hand, and grabbed a fistful of his father's shirt in the other. Tiredly, he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and peered up at the detective's face with expectant eyes.

When Sherlock didn't speak, but rather just began swaying back and forth, Hamish repeated his question again. "What, Da?"

Sherlock began to slowly pace around the room, thinking about how he should begin. Eventually, he took a deep breath and turned his attention to Hamish, who was peering up at him from where he was resting, his eyes wide and curious.

"I had a nightmare, Hamish," he began slowly. "Do you know what that is?"

The little boy thought for a moment, pulling his eyebrows together. But, not remembering his own nightmares, Hamish shook his head no.

"All right, then," Sherlock continued. "Well, a nightmare is a really bad dream, Hamish. It's a dream where you experience something scary, or sad, and it makes you scared or sad. Nightmares can be about anything, really, but usually they end in feelings of helplessness, anxiety, or sorrow. Do you understand so far?"

Hamish nodded slightly, rubbing his cheek against Sherlock's sleeve. The detective continued speaking.

"Now sometimes dreams, good or bad, can make you think that something's happening in real life. And if you ever think a nightmare is actually happening, it can be very scary and upsetting. That's what happened to me. I was dreaming that something very bad happened to someone I love, and it scared me, because, for a moment, I thought that it had actually happened in real life. That's why I was crying. Understand?"

Slowly, Hamish nodded, but it was clear that his mind was somewhere else; the little boy was thinking deeply.

Patiently, Sherlock waited for Hamish to continue with his thoughts. He paced slowly around the room, and absentmindedly began to rub the little boy's back.

Eventually, Hamish pointed to himself, and looked up at Sherlock asking, "Da?"

The detective sighed. He had been hoping Hamish wouldn't inquire about the details of the dream, much less deduce that it had been about him; he didn't want the little boy to become upset.

Hesitantly, he answered, "Yes, Hamish. My bad dream was about you. But it's all okay now," he added hurriedly, hoping Hamish wouldn't ask anymore questions. "You're here and safe and nothing happened." He placed a quick kiss to Hamish's forehead.

Smiling at the kiss, Hamish grabbed hold of Sherlock's shirt once again, as he nodded slowly. "What?" he asked finally.

Sherlock sighed quietly. "Nothing, Hamish," he said quickly. He could already feel his heartbeat quicken at the memory of the horrible dream.

"No, Da," Hamish said firmly. "What?" He gazed up at Sherlock with his large eyes. Sherlock stared back, the corner of his eyes pulled down slightly at the thought of the nightmare.

"Okay," he whispered quietly, brushing away Hamish's hair from his forehead. "I had a nightmare that someone had broken into the flat, and taken you away from me. And I was so scared that I was never going to see you again." Sherlock felt his breath quicken as he looked into Hamish's eyes, which were now wide with fear. "I chased after the bad person, and almost had you, but then, just like that, you slipped out of my reach, and I thought I'd lost you forever." Sherlock suddenly realized that Hamish's eyes were filling with tears, and that the little boy's grip on his arm and chest had gotten much tighter. Hurriedly, he finished summarizing his dream, changing the ending so as to calm Hamish. "But then I found you, took you back home, and everything was all right again. So it ended up happy. There's nothing to cry about, Hamish. It's okay." He quickly brushed his thumb over the top of Hamish's cheek. He felt the little boy relax once again, the grip on his shirt and sleeve loosening.

"Ohh," Hamish sighed in relief, leaning his head back against his father's shoulder, all fear now washed away by Sherlock's calming words.

"'Kay, Da?" he asked quietly, looking up at Sherlock.

The detective chuckled lightly under his breath at his son's question.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm okay now, thank you." His lips turned up at the corners as he felt Hamish smile against his shoulder.

Tenderly, he leaned in and placed a soft kiss to Hamish's smooth cheek, and then, feeling the little boy giggle slightly in his arms, he pressed another kiss into Hamish's ear, smiling as he did so. His son's light, airy laugh filled the room.

Grinning, Sherlock placed Hamish on his back, lying him down on the bed and began pressing quick, little kisses all over his face as he did so, throwing the little boy into a fit of sweet giggles.

"Da!" he squealed happily, as he pressed his hands against Sherlock's neck, trying to stop the stream of ticklish kisses that were covering his face.

Sherlock laughed out loud as he began to tickle Hamish's belly. He reached down and curled his hands around the little boy's tiny feet. He began to kiss Hamish's toes, sending him into a new fit of giggles. Still laughing, he blew a quiet raspberry against the bottom of Hamish's soft feet.

"Daa!" the little boy gasped, still laughing. "No! No, Daa!" he squealed happily. Sherlock continued to laugh, but stopped tickling the little boy upon hearing his protests. He kept his fingers wrapped around Hamish's tiny feet, and leaned forward so he was above Hamish. He ducked down and his raven curls brushed against his son's cheeks as he planted a gentle kiss to Hamish's nose.

"Shhh," he chuckled lightly, "We might wake up John, hmm?" He scooped Hamish up into a hug, and leaned back on the bed, letting his back rest agains the headboard.

"Mmm," Hamish replied, still giggling. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Hmmm. Da 'etter," he declared joyfully as he leaned back in his father's arms. Sherlock smiled fondly in response as Hamish reached up and tried to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Ohhh," the detective sighed deeply, changing positions so he was laying on the bed, his head resting on the pillows, Hamish resting on his chest, his chubby arms still resting on his neck.

"Let's both go back to sleep, hmm?" he murmured quietly.

Carefully, he crawled back under the covers, and made to place Hamish back in his cot, but he was answered by a very persistent, "No, Da. No," as Hamish gripped onto his fingers.

Trying to hide his smile, Sherlock pulled Hamish under the covers with him, secretly happy to have the comfort of Hamish's small form nuzzling against him.

Carefully, trying not to jostle Hamish too much, Sherlock moved the pillows to form a wall on the other side of the bed. Getting situated, he found a comfortable position on his side, and settled into the bed, pulling Hamish close to him.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed as he snuggled in closer to Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes.

As he felt Hamish's tiny form lean into him, Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping that he would be able to get some sleep, void of nightmares. He listened to the sound of Hamish's breathing, steady and even...

"Da?" came a quiet whisper.

"Yes, Hamish?" In response, Hamish moved Sherlock's hand, which had been resting on his back, and pulled it up to his face. He pressed a tender kiss to his father's fingertips. "Nigh', Da," he whispered into Sherlock's hand. His tiny fingers began to absentmindedly trace the lines on the palm of his father's hand.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured quietly into the little boy's hair. "I love you...", he added with a kiss to Hamish's forehead.

Hamish continued to trace his palm, and Sherlock found his son's tiny touch soothing. He felt his eyelids become heavy, and then, almost unwillingly, they slid shut.

"Mmm," he hummed, his deep baritone voice filling the room. Subconsciously, he wrapped his hand around Hamish's, and, his son snuggling against him, silently fell asleep...

That night, sleeping soundly against his father, it was Hamish's comfort that chased away Sherlock's nightmares.


	12. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers! So this chapter is pretty short, so I decided to just post it today. Thanks for all your wonderful reviews and to all my followers and readers! Have a great rest of your weekend, guys! Enjoy! =)Thanks!

That was the last nightmare Sherlock had. Life returned to normal quickly after the scare of the orphanage case.

Ever since the nightmare, though, the detective had a new appreciation for Hamish; a new kind of love had formed the moment the little boy had tenderly brushed away his sadness.

It was several days later, as Hamish was sat on the floor, trying desperately to put together a puzzle, when Sherlock had this realization. His chest filled with warmth, and he couldn't help but smile at Hamish. This little boy—his son—had melted away his cold exterior.

"Amazing," he murmured out loud, not even noticing he had said it. Hamish turned away from the puzzle piece in his hand and looked at his father.

"Da?" he asked curiously upon seeing the almost dazed look on Sherlock's face.

"Hmm? Oh! Yes. Sorry, Hamish, I was just thinking. Here," he said, leaning over towards Hamish. He guided the little boy's hands until the large puzzle piece dropped into place.

"See?" he said, smiling warmly at Hamish, but the little boy barely noticed. His attention was now focused entirely on Sherlock.

"What's wrong, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, noticing how his son was staring at him intently.

"What?" Hamish asked, shoving the puzzle away with his chubby hands. He crawled over to Sherlock, and pulled himself up, trying to sit on his father's lap.

Chuckling under his breath at Hamish's efforts, Sherlock picked up the little boy, and moved him so he was resting on his legs.

"What was I thinking about? Is that what you're asking?" Sherlock questioned. The little boy nodded and began to twiddle one of Sherlock's buttons between his tiny fingers.

"I was thinking about you," the detective stated, staring at the little boy on his lap. Hamish's fingers froze at his father's words, and he pointed to himself, a shocked look on his face, as if he was amazed Sherlock could be thinking about him.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled. He moved his hand, and playfully ran one of his fingers down Hamish's tiny nose, causing the little boy to giggle slightly. "I was thinking about you."

Hamish smiled widely, now very excited that he'd learned his father had been thinking of him.

Grinning, he reached his arms up at Sherlock, who was still chuckling at the little boy's amazement. Gently, Sherlock picked Hamish up and placed him so he was resting against his chest.

Without thinking, Hamish began to trace the gap at the base of Sherlock's neck with his tiny fingers as he situated himself in his father's arms. The detective smiled fondly at the sensation.

Still very excited, Hamish asked again, "What, Da?" He leaned into Sherlock, resting his head against his fathers' chest.

Sherlock looked down at Hamish, and couldn't help but smile at the excited look on the little boy's face. He moved his hand and placed it on Hamish's back as he stood up off the ground. He slowly began to walk around the room.

"I was just thinking about how much I love you, Hamish," he said to the little boy in his arms. Hamish nodded against Sherlock's chest, still smiling. But, thinking about his father's words, his face contorted with confusion. He tried to repeat the new word Sherlock had just said.

"'Ooo…'Ove, Da? What?"

"Well," Sherlock began, thinking about how he should explain love to Hamish. He began to bounce the little boy slightly in arms as he started to pace around the flat. He continued to talk, "Technically, love is release of chemicals in the body such as phenylethylamine (though it's better know as PEA), norepinephrine, dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins. The release of these chemicals brings about feelings of elation, happiness, comfort," Sherlock said, talking far too quickly for Hamish, who looked completely lost, though this went unnoticed by the detective and he continued speaking quickly, excited to be sharing information with his son.

"There are several different forms of love, technically speaking, although, really, the chemical releases are very similar in nature, with just a few minor differences. It's really quite interesting if you think about it. I mean—"

"Da?" Hamish whispered quietly, overwhelmed by flow of words from Sherlock.

"Hmm? Oh! Right… Sorry, Hamish. I just got a little carried away." Sherlock looked down at Hamish, and couldn't' help but laugh at the utterly confused and overwhelmed look on the little boy's face.

"Sorry," he laughed again, brushing some curls away from Hamish's face. The detective stopped pacing, and opted to sway back and forth. He bounced the little boy lightly in arms as he thought of how to phrase his words.

"Love… Well… When you love someone, it means you care very deeply about them; you would do anything for them. You can find comfort in the ones you love, Hamish. Sometimes, it can result in things a warmth in your chest, or something like a fluttering in your belly," Sherlock murmured. To help him understand, he reached down and gently tickled Hamish's stomach.

Smiling, the detective continued speaking. "Love can be shown in many different ways; from just giving a hug or kiss, to saying it out loud, to giving someone a compliment."

"Oh," Hamish said quietly. Thinking, he stuck out his bottom lip, and continued to play with the gap at his father's neck.

Seeing how hard Hamish was thinking, Sherlock asked, "Do you understand what I told you, Hamish?" In response, the little leaned forward, resting his head against his fathers' chest. He nodded slowly, and then closed his eyes. His eyebrows pulled together as he thought.

Sherlock waited patiently for Hamish. Smiling fondly, he began to twirl a lock of the little boy's auburn hair between his fingers.

Eventually, Hamish opened his eyes, but it was clear he was still thinking.

"Da?" he asked, gazing up at Sherlock.

"Yes, Hamish? What is it?" the detective asked quietly, hoping not to disturb Hamish's train of thought.

"'Ove…" he began slowly.

"Yes? What about it?"

Not knowing how to put what he was wanting to say into words, Hamish leaned back in Sherlock's arms, hoping to show his father what he meant. He took one of his tiny hands, and placed it on his chest. Then, looking up at Sherlock, he moved his other small hand and placed it against Sherlock's chest, right over his heart.

"'Ove, Da?" he asked, his eyebrows still pulled together.

"Oh…" Sherlock sighed, surprised at how much Hamish had understood.

"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock whispered excitedly. Slowly, he took one of his hands and moved it so it was resting on top of Hamish's tiny chest, covering his son's hand with his own. "Love," he whispered happily, nodding encouragingly at the little boy.

"'Ove!" Hamish cried happily, excited that he had understood his father's explanation. He threw his arms up and wrapped them as tightly as he could around Sherlock's neck. "'Ove!" he laughed again, snuggling into the detective's neck.

"Yes!" Sherlock chuckled, happy at Hamish's excitement. "Very good, Hamish! So clever!" he leaned down and planted a quick kiss to Hamish's cheek, smiling brightly as he did so. "I'm very proud of you," he chuckled.

"'Ove?" the little boy asked excitedly.

"Yes, yes! I love you, Hamish." Sherlock beamed as he saw Hamish's smile widen and felt the little boy's grip around his neck tighten.

Playfully, Sherlock tickled Hamish's neck, asking, "And do you love me, Hamish? Hmm?" He chuckled as the little boy squirmed happily in his arms.

"'Es! Yes!" Hamish giggled happily, trying to escape the stream of tickles. "Yes, 'ove Da!"

Sherlock, still smiling, stopped tickling Hamish. "Good!" he sighed, over-exaggerating greatly, "I was worried there for a moment."

"Daa," Hamish giggled.

"Hmm," Sherlock replied happily, squeezing his arms around Hamish in a hug.

"'Ove!" the little boy repeated again, talking happily into Sherlock's neck.

"Ohhh, we're going to be hearing that for a while, aren't we?" the detective chuckled happily.

"Yes! 'Ove!"

In fact, it took several weeks for little Hamish to grow tired of using the new word, and though Sherlock grew tired of the word itself, he never grew tired of all of the hugs and kisses Hamish would give him, the way his face would light every time he used the new word, and he never grew tired of being reminded what the word 'love' entailed…


	13. Milestones

"John?" Sherlock called worryingly from where he was sitting at the table, his fingers typing quickly over the computer keys.

"Yeah?" John called from the kitchen. When no response came, he left the kitchen, calling "Sherlock?"

"Walking," the detective muttered as his eyes scanned the computer screen in front of him.

Confused, John sat down in his chair, and turned his attention to his flat mate. "Mmm… Okay. Walking. What about it?"

"Hamish," Sherlock replied, muttering again under his breath.

The doctor thought for a moment. "What about Hamish walking?" he asked, still very confused.

"He should be walking by now. He's nearly fourteen months old, and it says here," he nodded with his head towards the screen, "that by now he should probably be walking. He hasn't even taken his first few steps yet." He shut the computer, and turned around to look at John who was smirking and rolling his eyes.

"What, John?" Sherlock said defensively. "What if there's something wrong with—"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John cried, chuckling. The detective stopped talking, and glanced towards the door to his room, checking to make sure Hamish had not woken from his nap.

Shaking his head and laughing slightly, John continued to talk to his flat mate. "Sherlock, Hamish is just fine; he's already started using objects around the flat to wobble around. He'll be walking any day now, I promise." He smiled reassuringly.

Sherlock thought for a moment, steepling his fingers under his chin. After thinking for several moments, he finally sat up, and moved to his chair. He draped his arms over the arms of the chair, leaning back.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he muttered dejectedly.

John couldn't help but chuckle at the worried look on Sherlock's face. "Ohh," he sighed. "Hamish has definitely changed you," he said, smiling at the detective.

"How do you mean?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Oh, I don't know. You just seem… Different. Happier, maybe? And, though you try to hide it, I've seen how soft you are with him," John added, smirking slightly, which received a royal eye roll from Sherlock, though the detective couldn't help but smile ever so slightly, as he knew John was correct.

"Hmm," he murmured slowly, peering at John. "Yes. I suppose he has changed me, hasn't he?" he pondered out loud.

In response, John raised his eyebrows, with a look that clearly said: Told you so. "Mmm-hmm," he hummed, looking smug as he turned his attention to the newspaper sitting on the arm of his chair

"Oh please," Sherlock moaned. He was just about to mount a well-planned defense when the sound of Hamish waking up in his room interrupted him.

"Hmm," John hummed again, smirking at the newspaper in his hands.

Rolling his eyes again, Sherlock opened the door to his room, and crossed over to the crib. He reached down and lifted Hamish up by his armpits, hugging him close to his chest.

"Hello, Hamish. Did you have a good nap, hmm?" Tiredly, Hamish leaned into Sherlock, letting his head lightly rest against his father's chest as he rubbed his eyes with one tiny fist.

"Mmm," he sighed against Sherlock's chest. "Yes, Daddy."

Sherlock and Hamish froze at the same time, both realizing that the little boy had said 'daddy' for the first time.

"Hamish!" Sherlock cried happily, sitting down on the bed, and setting the little boy on his lap. Hamish looked just as shocked as his father, with his mouth hanging open slightly and his eyes wide and excited.

Smiling widely, the detective pulled Hamish into his arms, hugging him tightly. "I'm very proud of you, Hamish!" he praised, planting soft kisses to the little boy's chubby cheeks.

"Yes, Daddy! 'Es!" Happy with his achievement, Hamish leaned forward, pressing his tiny form tightly against Sherlock's chest.

"Ohh," Sherlock sighed happily, hugging the little boy tightly to his chest. "Let's go tell John, hmm?" he said excitedly.

Sherlock stood up, still hugging Hamish close to his chest and walked out of his room.

"John?"

"Yeah?" the doctor replied, looking away from his newspaper. Excitedly, Sherlock turned Hamish around so he was sitting on his arms, his back pressed against the detective's chest.

He bent his head down ever so slightly and told Hamish encouragingly, "Go on. Tell him."

Hamish nodded, and took a deep breath. He looked at John excitedly and, pointing to Sherlock, called out, "Daddy!"

"Oh!" John exclaimed, standing up quickly. "Good job, then, Hamish. That's exciting isn't, it?" He smiled at Sherlock who was practically beaming.

"Yes, Joh! Daddy!" Hamish was bouncing happily in Sherlock's arms, his deep green eyes glowing with excitement. "Daddy!" he giggled again, turning around in Sherlock's arms so he could give the detective a hug.

"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock laughed, giving John a knowing look.

"Daddy," the little boy sighed happily into Sherlock's neck.

"Great job, Hame," John laughed. He reached over, and gave Hamish's back a light pat, turned his attention back to his newspaper, still smiling, and glanced at the watch on his wrist.

"Oh!" he cried, standing up. "I've got to get going. Going to be late!" He grabbed his coat, and turned back to Hamish, who was still snuggled tightly against Sherlock, smiling into the detective's shirt.

"Bye, Hame. Very good job! Have a fun day, you two." He quickly kissed the little boy's cheek, then hurried down the stairs, calling, "Bye, Sherlock."

After hearing the door shut, Sherlock detective turned his attention back to Hamish.

"Well," he sighed, moving the little boy back slightly so that he could look at him. "I say we celebrate. How does some ice cream sound, hmm?" he asked, smiling as Hamish's eyes widened slightly.

"'Es, Daddy!"

"Good," he chuckled. "But you can't tell John, okay? Let's keep it a secret from John, okay?" Sherlock whispered playfully.

"Ohh," Hamish sighed, now very serious at the prospect of having to keep a secret, "'Kay, Daddy."

Sherlock chuckled at the little boy's seriousness and crouched down, placing Hamish on the ground. He looked lovingly into the little boy's eyes.

"I'll go get the ice cream. Do you want to stay here and play, or help me get the ice cream?"

"Daddy," Hamish replied confidently. Smiling, Sherlock picked up the little boy, placing him on his hip as he walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock sat Hamish in his chair, buckling him in as he turned towards the freezer. He pulled out a tub of ice cream, quickly grabbed two bowls, and sat down at the table. He placed the ice cream and bowls in front of Hamish and moved his chair closer to the little boy.

"Do you want to help, Hamish?" he asked.

"'Es, Daddy."

Sherlock took Hamish's tiny hand in his own, wrapping his long fingers around both the little boy's hand and the spoon, and helped Hamish scoop some of the ice cream into his bowl. He then guided the little boy's hand to scoop one spoonful of ice cream into his own bowl, though Hamish insisted he should have more.

"Thank you, Hamish, but this is enough for me," he said gently, smiling at Hamish warmly as he did so.

"Oh," the little boy said quietly. "'Kay, Da."

The two ate the ice cream quickly. Once they were finished, Sherlock cleared away the bowls, and, much to the chagrin of Hamish, tried to clean off the little boy's face.

"Daddy!" he protested, trying to push away his father's hands, though his efforts were so cute that Sherlock couldn't hold back a smile.

"Hamish," he began, laughing at the little boy's fruitless efforts, "You have chocolate ice cream all over your face. I have to clean it off," he chuckled.

With a very pitiful look on his face, Hamish stopped his protests and allowed Sherlock to clean off the rest of his face and hands.

"You are definitely my son, aren't you?" the detective chuckled lightly upon seeing the look on his son's face. Tenderly, he brushed his thumb over Hamish's now-clean cheek, a fond look in his eyes.

"My son..." he murmured quietly, letting his thumb rest on the little boy's soft cheek.

All previous distress forgotten, Hamish closed his eyes as Sherlock's thumb rested on his face, and leaned in to the touch.

"Daddy…" he sighed happily.

That same fond look in his eyes, Sherlock felt a wave of love rush over him as Hamish's small head rested in is hand, a content look on the little boy's face.

"Daddy," Hamish smiled, opening his dark green eyes to peer into his father's ever-changing grey ones.

Sherlock smiled warmly at the little boy, brushing his thumb over the top of his cheek once more, before asking, "Do you want your shirt on or off, Hamish?" Over the past few weeks, he had learned that the little boy much preferred to go about his day wearing just a nappy, rather than his clothes.

In response, the little boy tugged at the bottom of his shirt, trying to pull it off. Smiling, Sherlock reached forward, and pulled Hamish out of his chair, moving the little boy so he was sitting on his lap. He gently pulled off Hamish's shirt, which was also messy from the ice cream, and placed it on the table.

"There," he said, bouncing his knees slightly. He let one of his hands rest on Hamish's back. Tenderly, he began rubbing his thumb back and forth, not even realizing he was doing it, the corner of his lips turning up as he remembered how smooth the little boy's skin truly was.

"Well. What shall we do today, then?" he asked, still bouncing Hamish on his knees. "We could watch television, draw, play with your toys, do some more puzzles—"

"Yes," Hamish replied happily upon hearing 'puzzles.'

"Puzzles. Okay, then." Sherlock stood up and walked out of the kitchen, Hamish on his hip. He sat the little boy down on the ground and pulled out one of his many puzzles they had bought, this one happening to be a puzzle about shapes.

He bent down, squatting next to Hamish who had already pulled all of the shapes out of their slots. "Hamish, I'm going to be working on some things in the kitchen, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish replied, though he was completely engrossed in the puzzle, he barely noticed his father talking. Chuckling, Sherlock stood up, and grabbed John's computer as he made his way to the kitchen, making sure the door was opened all the way. He pulled out his microscope from under the sink, along with some samples he'd wanted to look at, and sat down in one of the chairs, opening the computer as he did so.

"Oh, John," he chuckled happily to himself, "You tried to change your password. You actually think it'll keep me out. Funny," he murmured to himself as he quickly typed in the new password.

The detective sat at the table, looking at the samples, and glancing occasionally at John's laptop. He continuously peered over at Hamish to make sure he was all right, and couldn't help but smile occasionally at the cute little baby noises he kept making.

Eventually, Hamish got tired of the shapes puzzle, shoving it away with a frustrated look on his face. He crawled over to Sherlock's chair, using the leg to pull himself up until he was in a standing position. With his bottom lip stuck out, he scanned the room, hoping to find something to do. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, and then froze when he realized his hand was not holding onto the leg of the chair anymore.

"Da-Daddy!" he called, a terrified look on his face.

"Hmm?" Sherlock murmured from the kitchen, staring intently into the microscope, distracted by the sample. When no reply came, he called, louder this time, "Yes, Hamish? What is it?"

"Da!"

When Hamish called, 'da,' rather than 'daddy,' the detective looked up from the microscope, and practically jumped out of the chair when he saw Hamish standing by himself, a horrified look on his small face.

"Hamish!" Sherlock cried as he hurried out of the kitchen. He knelt down a few feet away from Hamish, stretching his arms out, smiling excitedly as he did so.

He laughed out loud, as he saw the mixed look of confusion and fright on Hamish's face.

Keeping his arms outstretched, Sherlock chuckled, "No, Hamish. It's okay, it's okay, I promise. I'm right here."

"Daddy," he moaned, still frozen.

Sherlock chuckled sadly. "Oh, Hamish. It's okay. Here…" Hoping to reassure the little boy, he moved forward slightly, keeping his arms outstretched. "You can do it!" he said encouragingly. "Come on! Just walk right into my arms, I've got you."

Hamish still appeared doubtful, though, and he looked at Sherlock, tears beginning to brim in his eyes.

"I'm right here," Sherlock murmured quietly, hoping to reassure the frightened little boy. "I'll catch you if you fall… I promise… You can do it."

Upon hearing his father's soothing voice, Hamish looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

"I promise," he whispered again, nodding at the little boy.

Hamish paused for a moment, and then took a deep breath. He looked into his father's eyes, and then, very cautiously, took one step forward, wobbling slightly as he did so.

"Yes! Yes, Hamish, that's it! Come on, one more, you can do it!"

Still staring intently at Sherlock, Hamish stepped forward again, a glint of hope and excitement in his sea-green eyes.

Hoping to get the little boy to walk more, Sherlock took one tiny step back, keeping his arms outstretched, a large smile on his face.

"You're doing so well, Hamish!"

All trepidation now forgotten, Hamish reached his chubby arms out, trying to grab his father's hands as he took another excited step forward. Still unsteady on his own feet, though, he tripped, falling forward towards Sherlock.

Almost instantly, the detective reached forward, catching Hamish as he fell. He scooped him up, and stood up quickly, spinning the little boy around as he called, "Oh, Hamish! I'm so proud of you! You took your first steps! You did such a good job!"

"Daddy!" Hamish laughed, holding onto Sherlock's hands with his own small fingers.

The detective stopped spinning and pulled Hamish into a tight hug, pressing loving kisses to the little boy's hair and cheeks.

"Daddy," he giggled into the detective's chest. "'Ove, Daddy."

Sherlock smiled into Hamish's silky, auburn curls. "I love you too, Hamish," he murmured. "Very much." He sat down on the couch and leaned the little boy back in his arms. Tenderly, he moved forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of Hamish's nose, secretly loving the way the little boy closed his eyes and giggled slightly.

"I'm very proud of you," he whispered, looking into Hamish's dark eyes.

Smiling sweetly, Hamish leaned forward, and reached both of his arms up until his tiny hands were resting on either side of the detective's cheeks.

"Hmm," he sighed, closing his eyes. "Daddy," he murmured, leaning forward, resting his head at the base of Sherlock's neck.

The detective chuckled lightly, and placed his hand on the back of Hamish's head as he pressed another kiss to the little boy's forehead.

"Would you like to try again?"

Hamish nodded against Sherlock's neck and leaned back, waiting to be placed on the ground.

"Here we go," Sherlock said as he slid off the couch, placing Hamish on the ground and holding the little boy up under the armpits. Keeping a firm hold around his middle, the detective waited until Hamish looked like he had gained enough balance.

"All right. I'm going to let you keep ahold of my hand, okay? And we're going to try to walk to the kitchen, all right?" he asked, squatting in front of Hamish.

"'Kay, Daddy," he replied quietly, now frightened again at the prospect of walking again.

"It's okay," Sherlock chuckled. "Here. Take my hand." He let go of Hamish's middle with one hand and moved it in front of the little boy. Hamish grabbed onto it eagerly, his chubby fingers wrapping around Sherlock's thumb.

Chuckling, the detective stood up, but had to bend over slightly so that he could keep his hand level with Hamish. He looked down and saw that Hamish did not yet reach his knee, but rather that the top of his head reached just a few inches below. He felt a tremendous amount of love swell in his chest upon seeing how truly small his son was.

Smiling at the thought, Sherlock took a small step forward, wrapping his large hand around Hamish's much smaller one as the little boy began taking wobbly steps forward.

"Very good, Hamish," he praised. "We're almost there, and you're doing a very good job!" As a thought occurred to him, he quickly pulled out his mobile from his pocket, and started filming Hamish as he continued toddling forward.

About halfway to the kitchen, the little boy seemed to become unsure. He stopped, squeezing his father's hand as he did so. "Daddy?" he asked worriedly.

"You're doing beautifully, Hamish," Sherlock replied, smiling warmly. "Keep going. You can do it."

Eventually, the two reached the kitchen, upon which Sherlock began happily praising the little boy again, kissing his cheeks and hugging him tightly.

"Let's send this to John, hmm?" he asked cheerily, already typing in the address on his phone.

Shortly thereafter, John's response came:

Told you so.

JW

Sherlock could practically see the doctor smirking, and he couldn't help but chuckle himself.

Smiling with Hamish in his arms, the detective tossed the phone away as he turned his attention back to his son.

"Try again?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

"All right, then," Sherlock answered happily as he bent down, placing the little boy on the ground, and reaching his hand out, allowing Hamish to grasp tightly onto his fingers for support. "Here we go…"


	14. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This chapter has not been proofread yet, so there are probably some mistakes. Please excuse! Thanks guys! Have a great weekend =)

"All right, Hamish," Sherlock said, standing up from where he'd been sitting on the couch. "Time for your snack, and then we'll get back to learning about the colors, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish said, reaching his arms up towards Sherlock. "Up?"

"Up, what, Hamish?"

The little boy thought for a moment, letting his arms drop back onto the couch. "Oh!" he gasped excitedly, remembering the new word he was supposed to use.

"Up 'ease, Daddy!" he called excitedly, thrusting his arms forward again towards Sherlock.

"Very good!" the detective praised happily. Smiling, he leaned down, and allowed Hamish to wrap his small arms around his neck. Standing up again, he situated the little boy against him and walked into the kitchen, smiling slightly as Hamish began to twirl a lock of his hair between his chubby fingers.

He opened the refrigerator, careful to check beforehand that there were no experiments that might frighten Hamish. When he saw nothing, he opened the door all the way, looking for a snack for the little boy.

"Hmm… Do you want celery, strawberries, or apples, Hamish?" he asked turning his attention back to the little boy, whose attention was focused solely on playing with the detective's hair.

Chuckling, Sherlock reached in, and grabbed the strawberries, knowing that they were Hamish's favorite.

Deciding not to disturb the little boy, Sherlock moved over to the counter and got the strawberries ready. He took little notice of the way Hamish began to tug absentmindedly at one of his ears, seeing how most of the little boy's attention was still focused on playing with his hair.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, pulling the little boy away from his thoughts.

The detective crossed over to the table, and sat down, deciding to keep Hamish with him rather than put him in his chair. He put the bowl of strawberries on the table, and set the little boy on his leg. Moving him forward until he was perched on the end of his knee, Sherlock wrapped one of arm around Hamish, keeping a firm hold around the little boy's middle with his large hand.

Upon seeing the fruit on the table, Hamish reached forward, grabbing a piece of strawberry in his hand, and shoved it eagerly into his mouth. After swallowing, he reached forward, grabbing more of the fruit in his chubby hands.

Smiling fondly, Sherlock tightened his grip around Hamish ever so slightly.

The smile, faded, however, as he saw the little boy begin to pull on his ears again, an unhappy look forming on his small face.

"Hamish?" he asked, now concerned. He turned the little boy around until they were face to face.

"Do you ears hurt, Hamish?" he asked.

Still tugging at one of his ears, the little boy appeared to think for a moment, drawing his eyebrows together. Suddenly, a wave of tiredness washed over him, and he leaned forward, resting his head against Sherlock's stomach.

Slightly worried about Hamish's out-of-character actions, Sherlock pulled the little boy close to him, and bent down, speaking into Hamish's hair, "Are you tired, Hamish?" He glanced at the clock. 7:49. Usually Hamish started to tire out at around 9:30 or so. Never had he been tired this early before.

"Mmm, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly, nodding his head up and down against Sherlock's chest.

"Do you want to finish your strawberries?" the detective asked, running a soothing hand down the little boy's back.

"No, 'ease, Daddy," Hamish replied sleepily.

Despite feeling slightly anxious, Sherlock chuckled quietly.

"How about just a few more pieces, okay Hamish?"

The little boy thought for a moment, peering up at his father from where he was resting.

"Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy…" he replied eventually.

"Good boy," Sherlock said thankfully. He leaned down and gently kissed Hamish's forehead, smiling at the ticklish feeling of his son's auburn hair brushing against his lips and nose.

Slowly, Sherlock turned Hamish's small form around until the little boy was facing forward towards the table once more. The detective wrapped his hand protectively around Hamish's stomach, but decided to scoot the little boy closer, rather than sit him on his knee. Hamish leaned back, letting his head rest against Sherlock's chest.

Using his free hand, the detective grabbed a piece of strawberry and tenderly fed it to Hamish. He waited patiently for the little boy to finish chewing, and then continued, feeding him a few more pieces before stopping. He picked Hamish up, moving his small form until he was resting just above his waist.

Suddenly, all of Hamish's tiredness seemed to dissipate, and the little boy sat up, grasping tightly onto Sherlock's shirt with one hand. He watched contently as his father moved the bowl of strawberries towards the sink.

"Daddy?" he asked. Upon hearing the little boy, Sherlock stopped moving the bowl, and turned his attention to Hamish. Instantly, he took notice of how the little boy was sitting up more and seemed clearly more energetic. He felt a small wave of relief was over him; he'd just been worrying over nothing. Hamish was fine.

"Yes, Hamish?" he asked contently.

"Daddy?" the little boy asked again, this time leaning forward slightly, keeping ahold of his father's shirt with one hand and pointing haphazardly at the bowl of strawberries with the other one. Subconsciously, the detective tightened his grip about Hamish's small body as he felt the little boy lean forward precariously.

"Oh! Yes of course you can have some more. Here." Smiling, Sherlock moved the bowl closer to Hamish, who eagerly reached forward, unsteadily grabbing a few pieces of fruit as he did so.

"'Kay, Daddy," he said happily, trying desperately not to drop the pieces of strawberry.

Laughing at his son's efforts, Sherlock put the bowl in the sink and placed his hand under Hamish's.

"Put them here," he chuckled, nodding at his open hand.

Hamish looked at his father's outstretched hand, then at the detective's face, and then back to his outstretched hand.

"Oh… 'Kay, Daddy," he said, understanding what he was to do.

Very delicately, as if he was worried he might hurt either his father's hand or the already-crushed strawberries between his fingers, Hamish moved his tiny hands towards Sherlock's and tenderly placed the pieces of strawberries on his palm. Focusing intently on the fruit, he leaned forward, and, very seriously, began to situate the fruit, delicately moving them apart from each other with his chubby fingers.

The detective stared fondly at the little boy, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly at the corners as Hamish tenderly moved his chubby fingers across his palm.

Satisfied with his work, the little boy gave a slight nod of his head, and turned back to Sherlock, smiling up at the detective, before turning back to his father's outstretched hand and eating the rest of the fruit one at a time.

"Good job, Hamish," Sherlock praised, tenderly smoothing down some of the little boy's unruly curls as he did so. "All right, then. How about some quick television before bed, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish replied happily, bouncing in Sherlock's arms.

Shortly after the cartoon (chosen by Hamish) had started, Sherlock began to notice that the little boy was tugging at his ears again. He also appeared to be becoming sleepy once again. Yawning widely, Hamish, who had been sitting up on Sherlock's stomach while the detective lay on the couch, leaned forward, lying down on his father's chest. His eyes became heavy as he continued to watch the cartoon.

Trying not to worry too much, Sherlock placed his hand on Hamish's small back, rubbing his thumb back and forth as the little boy breathed heavily against him.

Upon feeling the soothing feel of his father's hand on his back, Hamish's eyelids became heavy, and he fought to keep them open, trying to focus on the television.

Sherlock smiled fondly as he saw how the little boy's eyelids fell shut, and then opened quickly as Hamish tried to stay awake.

"Come on, Hamish," the detective sighed happily, sitting up from his position on the couch, keeping his hand firmly on the little boy's back. "Time for bed."

"Mmm... 'Kay, Daddy..." Hamish sighed, nodding against Sherlock's chest, pressing his face into the soft fabric.

Slowly, cuddling the little boy close, Sherlock stood up, and began to walk towards his room, bouncing gently as he did so. He began to rub his hand slowly up and down Hamish's back.

Once in his room, the detective walked over to the cot, and gently placed Hamish inside, trying not to disturb him too much.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly as he felt Sherlock pull his arms away and out of the cot. He reached up, grabbing one of his father's fingers as he did so.

"Yes?" Sherlock murmured, leaning in towards the little boy. He placed his free hand on the side of Hamish's small head, tenderly twirling a lock of he little boy's auburn hair between his fingers.

"Hmm…" Hamish sighed, already fast asleep.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured bending down to press a kiss to the little boy's forehead. "Sleep well."

The detective tried pulling his hand away, but when Hamish's small finger remained tightly wrapped around his own, he decided just to lie down on the bed, keeping his hand inside the cot. He smiled fondly at the sensation as Hamish's fingers tightened slightly, and the little boy let out a content sigh.

 

"Daddy?"

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of Hamish's small voice calling out in the night. There was something different, though, Sherlock noticed. It sounded as if Hamish was in pain.

Instantly, Sherlock sat up, rolling over on the bed, and hurried towards the cot. He looked in, and even in the darkness, he could see Hamish's little face scrunched up in discomfort.

Frantically, Sherlock reached in and pulled the little boy out as tenderly as he could.

"Daddy," Hamish whimpered. Eyes scrunched shut, he reached forward blindly, trying to hold onto Sherlock. "Daddy," he cried again, only adding to his father's alarm.

Quickly, Sherlock pulled Hamish close, frantically running a hand over the little boy's face and back, trying to understand what was wrong. However, he found no evidence of external injury.

Trying to stay calm, so as not to add to Hamish's discomfort further, Sherlock hugged the little boy close to his chest. Keeping a firm hold of the little boy, the detective began to gently smooth his hand over his son's auburn curls, hoping to provide some sort of comfort for the little boy.

"Hamish? What's wrong? Does something hurt?" he asked quietly. He felt the little boy nod against his chest.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whimpered quietly, talking into Sherlock's shirt.

"Do you think you could show me where it's hurting?" the detective asked tenderly, rubbing a comforting hand up and down Hamish's tiny back. He started to move the little boy away, trying to place him on the bed.

"Noo," Hamish moaned, He pressed himself further into Sherlock, clinging to the detective with his small fists.

"Okay, okay," Sherlock said quickly, clutching the little boy back to his chest.

Pressing his small form against his father, Hamish shivered—almost violently—in Sherlock's arms, only adding to the detective's anxiousness.

"Are you cold, Hamish?" he asked, struggling to hide his worry.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied sadly as another shiver coursed through his small body.

"Okay," Sherlock murmured to himself, trying to figure out what to do. "Hamish? I need to lay you down, okay?"

The little boy sniffled, looking up at his father. He nodded slowly. "'Kay…"

Tenderly, trying to keep his arms wrapped around Hamish as much as he could, so as to give him some sort of warmth, Sherlock placed the little boy so he was lying on his back on the bed. He leaned down, and pressed his lips to Hamish's forehead, testing for a temperature. The little boy's skin was incredibly hot.

"Oh, Hamish," he sighed sadly, leaning back. "Hamish, I'm sorry, but I need to take your shirt and trousers off, okay? We need to cool you down, all right?" He moved down, slowly easing the little boy's shirt off.

"No… 'Ease, Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, trying feebly to push his father's hands away.

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a stab of sadness rush through him upon hearing his son's tiny voice.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, silently telling himself to continue. He quickly pulled of Hamish shirt and pants, and then wrapped his arms back around the little boy, cradling him in the crook of his arm. Hamish sighed, glad to be enveloped in the warmth of Sherlock's arms.

"Hamish, can you show me where it hurts?"

"Ouch?" the little boy asked quietly, peering up at Sherlock.

"Yes. Yes, can you show me where the 'ouch' is?"

Nodding slowly, Hamish took one hand, and pointed to his stomach and then began pulling on his ear.

"Your stomach and ears hurt?"

"'Es, Daddy. Ouch." Frowning, Hamish started tugging on one of his ears, like he had earlier that day.

"Yeah, I know. Ouch…" Sherlock murmured to himself, worried and unsure about what he should do. "We're going to have to go and wake up, okay?" The detective turned his attention back to Hamish, who was staring up expectantly at him, his small lips drawn down in a sad frown. He gave a little nod of his head in response.

Trying to move Hamish as little as possible, Sherlock stood up off the bed. Moving swiftly, he left the bedroom and hurried up the stairs to John's room.

"John?" he whispered loudly, swinging open the door. "John?" he called, louder this time. When he remained asleep, Sherlock hurried over the bed, keeping Hamish close, and gently shook the doctor's arm.

"John? John, wake up."

"Hmm? What? Sherlock?" he asked groggily, sitting up. His eyes fell upon a rather ill looking Hamish clutched tightly to his flat mates chest.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"Hamish is sick. His ears and stomach are hurting him and he has a high fever," the detective said frantically, now unable to control his anxiety. "And I don't know what to do to make it stop—"

"Okay, okay, okay," John said quickly, getting out of bed. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, he probably just has an ear infection. It's very common among young kids; it's nothing to worry about at all. We'll just need to get him some Tylenol to help with the pain," he said calmly, giving Sherlock a reassuring smile. "Let me feel," he said, placing his hand on the little boy's forehead. His eyebrows pulled together slightly upon feeling how warm Hamish was.

"What?" Sherlock questioned anxiously upon seeing the look on John's face. "What's wrong, John?"

"Nothing, hopefully. He's just really hot, that's all. But it should be fine. Don't worry," he added reassuringly. "I don't know if we have any infant Tylenol, though. We'll have to go check." He nodded towards the doorway and exited the room, walking down the stairs, Sherlock right at his heels, clutching Hamish close.

The trio entered the kitchen. "Sherlock, get him a sippy cup and fill it with water. See if he'll drink it," John ordered as he began looking through the kitchen, trying to find some Tylenol for Hamish.

Sherlock found one of the little boy's cups, and quickly filled it with water. Cup in hand, he left the kitchen and sat down on the couch, cradling Hamish in his arms.

"Hamish?" he asked. "Can you try and drink this for me? We're going to see if it helps, okay?"

The little boy closed his eyes together for a moment, tugging at one of his ears again.

"Ouch, Daddy," he mumbled, frowning as he pulled at his ear.

"I know, Hamish," Sherlock replied quietly, staring down at his son with sad eyes. "I'm going to try and make it better, okay?"

"Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered quietly, opening his eyes to look up at his father. Sherlock couldn't help but notice the way the little boy's eyes were glazed over. He lowered the cup, placing it in Hamish's mouth. Hesitantly, the little boy began drinking, slowly sucking at the liquid.

"I'm going to have to run out and get some," John called. Sherlock looked up, watching as his flat mate emerged from the kitchen, already pulling on his jacket.

"I shouldn't be long, okay? In the meantime, we need to try and get his temperature down. You're going to need to give him a cold bath. He's not going to like it, okay, Sherlock? But we need to cool him down. I'll be back as soon as I can. If anything happens, ring me?"

John's instructions had only added to Sherlock anxiety. He let out an unstable breath. "Yes, John," he sighed shakily.

"Right," the doctor said, giving a slight nod of his head. He turned around and hurried out the front door, leaving Sherlock alone with Hamish.

"I'm sorry you're sick, Hamish," he murmured, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the little boy's nose.

Hamish closed his eyes, sighing quietly as Sherlock kissed his nose.

Sherlock waited patiently for Hamish to finish drinking the water.

"Okay, Hamish," he said, pulling the cup out of Hamish's mouth. "Come on. We have to go take a bath, all right?"

"'Kay."

Sherlock picked the little boy up and moved to his room, walking into the bathroom. He started the water running, trying to make it as warm as possible for Hamish. Letting the tub fill up, and still holding the little boy close to his chest, Sherlock reached under the sink, grabbing some of Hamish's toys.

He turned back to the tub and switched the water off, tossing the toys in the water.

Sherlock quickly discarded Hamish's nappy and sat down on the ground, sitting the little boy in his lap.

"Hamish, the water is going to be a little cold, all right? But it's going to help make you better, okay?" Sherlock asked, staring sadly into Hamish's dark green eyes.

"'Etter?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered back.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sighed sadly, nodding his small head slightly.

Remaining seated, Sherlock lifted the little boy up underneath the armpits and moved him over the water. He quickly lowered the little boy into the cool water, feeling a shot of pain run through his chest as he saw the look on Hamish's face upon being lowered into the cold water.

"Daddy!" he cried, grasping tightly onto Sherlock's hand, desperately trying to get away from the freezing water enveloping his body. "No, Daddy! 'Ease!"

Upon hearing Hamish's cries, Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of guilt bear down on him; he couldn't breath; his chest was aching with pain and sadness.

"I'm sorry, Hamish," he breathed, trying to catch his breath.

"Daddy," the little boy whimpered, starting to cry. Another wave of guilt, pain and sadness washed over him as Hamish shivered violently, tears streaming down his small face.

"Just a few more minutes, okay?" Sherlock begged. "Would you like to play with some of your toys?" he asked feebly, reaching down to the other end of the tub and grabbing a small plastic boat. He placed the toy in front of Hamish, who, after a moment's pause, reached down and began playing with the small toy.

Sherlock managed to keep Hamish in the water for several more minutes before the little boy grew tired of playing with the toys and remembered how cold he was.

"Daddy?" he asked, stretching his small body, trying to pull himself out of the water.  
Sherlock quickly found a towel and plucked Hamish out of the tub, wrapping the warm fabric tightly around him.

"Ahh," Hamish sighed upon feeling the warmth of the towel surround his small body.

"You did such a good job, Hamish," Sherlock praised. He leaned down and pressed a loving kiss to the little boy's forehead. He moved back, and placed his hand to the side of Hamish's face, stroking his thumb over the little boy's smooth cheek.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed. Closing his eyes, the little boy leaned into his father's touch.

Sherlock quickly dried Hamish off, put on a clean nappy, but decided to keep him undressed, as he was still quite hot. He began to slowly pace around the flat, waiting anxiously for John to return. Hamish wrapped his tiny arms around the detective's neck, resting his head against his father's collarbone.

"Daddy," Hamish whimpered, talking against Sherlock's neck.

"What is it, Hamish?" the detective replied worriedly.

"Ouch," Hamish said, pointing to his stomach. Suddenly, his whole body lurched forward, as if to throw up. Knowing what was happening, Sherlock hurried into the kitchen, grabbed a bowl and situated it just as the little boy convulsed again, throwing up this time.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock said sadly, rubbing circles up and down Hamish's back, trying to comfort the little boy.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried, tears falling from his eyes. He turned around, pressing his face against Sherlock's chest, staining the fabric with his tears.

"Shhh," the detective whispered, kissing Hamish's head and rubbing his hand up and down the little boy's back. "I know. I know... I'm so sorry," he whispered, feeling that same sensation of guilt and sadness come over him.

"So sorry..." he murmured, talking into Hamish's hair. He felt his eyes sting as he heard the little boy, sobbing against his chest. "Daddy."

Just then, Sherlock heard the sound of the front door opening.

"John," he sighed, relieved, and hoping that the medicine his flat mate had would help to ease some of his son's pain.

"Daddy!" Hamish sobbed again as Sherlock stood up, hurrying over to the doorway.

"Hey!" John called, reaching the top of the stairs. His gaze moved, glancing back and forth between a very anxious-looking Sherlock and the sobbing Hamish clutched close to his chest.

"What happened?" he asked, hurrying into the kitchen with the medicine.

"He threw up," Sherlock replied tersely, rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back again. "Shhh," he whispered, kissing the little boy's forehead. "John's back, and he's got some medicine that should help make you better, okay?"

Hamish looked up at his father, his cheeks wet from the tears. "'Etter?" he sniffled.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured sadly. He moved his hand, and began to gently brush away the tears from his son's face, feeling another pang of sadness course through him.

"Here, Hame. I need you to drink this for me," John said, coming over to Sherlock and Hamish, a spoonful of medicine in hand.

Still sniffling, the little boy looked up at Sherlock for reassurance before turning back to John and opening his mouth slightly in preparation.

John quickly slid the spoon into Hamish's mouth, pouring the liquid in. The little boy swallowed, making a face as he did so.

"No, Daddy," he mumbled, turning around in Sherlock's arms. The detective couldn't help but laugh out loud at the little boy's face, though Hamish barely noticed. He reached his chubby arms up, wrapping them feebly around his father's neck, and pressed his cheek against the base of Sherlock's neck, sighing tiredly as he did so.

Swaying slightly, Sherlock turned his head to the side and pressed another kiss to the little boy's forehead. Tilting his head to the side, the detective his cheek rest tenderly on top of Hamish's head, breathing in, allowing the sweet smell of his son and the feel of his silky skin against his cheek calm him.

He turned his attention back to John. "Now what?" he asked.

"Now, we wait," John replied, giving a slight nod of his, staring sadly at the little boy.

 

Several hours later, an incredibly frustrated and shirtless Sherlock was pacing the flat, clutching Hamish, who was crying and had thrown up several more times, close to his chest. A very tired looking John was sat on the couch, running his fingers through his short hair.

"You're a doctor, John!" Sherlock hissed. "You should be able to fix him! Look at him, he's—he's—" Upon hearing Hamish cry even louder, Sherlock quickly stopped speaking, and moved the little boy, cradling him in the crook of his arm.

"Shhh," he whispered calmly, brushing his thumb over the little boy's cheek. "It's okay, Hamish. Daddy's here." He continued to tenderly move his thumb across Hamish's cheek, as it seemed to calm him down considerably.

"Sorry, John," he muttered quickly. "It's just—I can't do anything! He's in pain and I can't do anything! I solve mysteries for a living – sometimes seemingly impossibly mysteries – but I can't stop him from hurting. It's just so frustrating!" he ranted, trying to keep his voice as quiet as possible.

"Daddy?" Hamish whimpered weakly.

"Yes, Hamish? What is it? Is everything okay? Does something hurt?" he asked frantically, before noticing that Hamish had stopped crying.

"No, Daddy," he replied quietly, blinking slowly up at Sherlock. Feebly, and with heavy eyelids, now exhausted from the previous hours, Hamish reached up towards Sherlock. "Up?" he asked, his voice weak and raw from crying and throwing up.

"Of course," Sherlock whispered, so quietly, he wasn't even sure John heard. Gingerly, he moved the little boy, hugging him close to his bare chest. He noticed how Hamish's skin felt much cooler to the touch. Sighing in relief, he rubbed the palm of his hand up and down Hamish's bare back, smiling for the first time in several hours at how incredibly soft his son's skin was.

"I think the worst is over, Hamish," he murmured happily, pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's warm cheek.

John cleared his throat, standing up off the couch. Tiredly, he began walking towards the stairs, thoroughly exhausted from the night's endeavors. "Goodnight, Hame. Hope you feel better, little man," he said, quickly kissing the little boy on the cheek. He continued walking towards the stairs, calling back, "'Night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John. Thank you again for all of your help."

"Mmm,"the doctor replied tiredly, smiling back at his flat mate before hurrying up the stairs, anxious to be able to sleep.

Keeping one hand protectively on Hamish's back, Sherlock walked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and laid down on the bed. He placed the little boy so he was sitting up on his stomach. Hamish peered at the detective with tired eyes.

"Hamish," Sherlock began, absentmindedly twirling a lock of the little boy's hair between his fingers. "You are such a brave and strong little boy. I'm so proud of you, Hamish." Sherlock paused, taking a deep breath, and closing his eyes. "I'm sorry you got sick, hmm? But hopefully tomorrow will be much better, okay?" he whispered, opening his eyes once again to peer at the little boy lying on his chest.

Eyebrows pulled together, Hamish scooted himself up towards Sherlock's face. He placed one tiny hand against the detective's cheek for balance.

"Ouch 'etter, Daddy?" he asked quietly, a small glint of hope in his deep green eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, staring intently into his son's eyes. He reached up and tenderly brushed away some of Hamish's curls, smiling sadly at the little boy's tired face. "Yes, Hamish... All better."

"Oh!" the little boy sighed happily. He leaned forward, and placed his head against Sherlock's cheek. "Daddy..." he whispered, wrapping one arm around the detective's neck as he did so. "'Nigh, Daddy?" Using all of his energy, Hamish lifted his head up to look his father.

Still smiling sadly, Sherlock moved Hamish onto his chest, placing one hand on the back of the little boy's head. Smiling contently, Hamish leaned into his father's comforting skin, snuggling his head against the base of Sherlock's neck. He reached up, haphazardly trying to find the detective's face.

"'Nigh, Daddy..." he whispered quietly, his small cheek moving against his father's skin as he spoke. 'Ove..." He shifted slightly, snuggling himself against the base of his father's collarbone, his head fitting almost perfectly into the space.

"Daddy..." he sighed, contently, allowing his full weight to lean into Sherlock as a wave of tiredness washed over him.

Still smiling slightly, Sherlock reached out, and took ahold of Hamish's tiny hand, which had finally resting upon the detective's jaw. Wrapping his fingers around his son's tiny hands, Sherlock moved Hamish's small fingers to his lips.

"Goodnight, Hamish... I love you," he whispered before pressing a tender kiss to the little boy's fingers.

"Mmm..." Hamish sighed, smiling against Sherlock's skin.

"I love you so much..." He pressed another quick kiss to the little boy's fingertips. Drifting off into sleep, Hamish subconsciously wrapped his tiny hand around one of his father's fingers.

Smiling lovingly at the little boy snuggled close to his chest, Sherlock wrapped his hand around Hamish's small fingers, covering his son's entire hand with his own. He moved it down, placing both their hands on his chest, then flattened his hand out, keeping Hamish's trapped safely under. He couldn't help but sigh happily as the little boy's hand rested perfectly in the gap at the bottom of his neck. In his sleep-induced state, Hamish began to move one of his small fingers incredibly slowly against his father's skin, absentmindedly tracing the gap.

Smiling, now very content that Hamish's sickness was over and the little boy was snuggled close to his chest, Sherlock turned his head ever so slightly and pressed on last kiss to his son's forehead, this one more loving and more tender than all the rest.

Feeling his own tiredness wash over him, Sherlock moved his free hand and placed it tenderly on Hamish's small back, still amazed at how soft and smooth his son's skin was.

Slowly rubbing his thumb over Hamish smooth skin, he whispered again, "Goodnight, Hamish...Sleep well..."

And with that, both father and son, wrapped in each other's embraces quickly fell asleep.


	15. Mummy

Sherlock was awoken by a stirring on his chest. Groggily, he opened his eyes and peered down at Hamish, who had just shifted slightly on his chest, but had not woken up yet. The sunlight was streaming through the window, making the little boy's already-pale skin look white.

Trying not to wake Hamish, Sherlock shifted, the memories of last night rushing back. Remembering that his son's hand was resting sweetly against his chest, the detective squeezed his hand slightly, wrapping his fingers around Hamish's hand, which was still resting at the base of his neck. He closed his eyes, sighing in reassurance upon feeling his son's hand beneath his own.

"Good morning, Hamish," he whispered quietly, opening his eyes, and giving the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Mmm… Daddy?" Hamish murmured, shifting again as he did so. The little boy slowly opened his eyes and peered up at Sherlock, but quickly squeezed them shut again upon seeing how bright it was. Groaning quietly, he shoved his face into Sherlock's neck, trying to get away from the bright light.

"No, Daddy," he mumbled, his tiny voice muffled slightly as he spoke against the detective's skin.

Sherlock chuckled happily and brushed his hand once over the little boy's bare back.

"Morning," he chuckled, yawning widely as he sat up. He felt Hamish giggle against his skin.

"Daddy," he laughed happily, pulling his head away from Sherlock's neck. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the light, Hamish squinted up at the detective, pushing his hands against Sherlock's collarbone in an effort to stand up.

Smiling, Sherlock held Hamish up, keeping the boy steady by holding him around the middle with one hand.

Now almost fully awake and even with his father's face, Hamish reached forward, flattening the palms of his small hands against Sherlock's cheeks.

"Morn' Daddy," he said, smiling as he stared into the detective's grey eyes.

"Good morning, Hamish," Sherlock answered happily. "Are you feeing better?"

Hands still on his father's face, Hamish nodded happily. "'Etter, Daddy," he stated firmly. "Ew…" he added, sticking his bottom lip out as he look earnestly at Sherlock.

The detective couldn't help but laugh out loud at his son's comment.

"Yes," he chuckled, brushing the back of his hand across Hamish's forehead. "Ew… Are your ears still hurting you?" he added, twirling some of the little boy's silky hair between his fingers.

"Ouch?"

"Yes. Ouch?"

Hamish thought for a moment. His small fingers curled against Sherlock's cheeks as he thought. Eventually, he removed one hand and tugged at one of his ears.

"Your ears still hurt, yes?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Well… I say we go and talk to John and see if we can't just help with that, hmm?"

"'Es, 'ease, Daddy," Hamish replied, nodding his head solemnly as he did so.

"All right. Let's go," Sherlock said, getting off the bed. Hamish's hands were still resting on his face.

 

It took several days for Hamish to fully bounce back from the sickness, but very quickly afterwards, he returned to his calm, happy self.

It was soon after that Sherlock was resting on the couch.

"No… It can't be… Well, I mean I suppose it could be. The car… His car…" Sherlock mumbled, eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin. Hamish was sat on the detective's stomach, examining his own tiny hands, eyebrows pulled together, bottom lip stuck out in concentration. He was gently tracing his own fingernails when Sherlock began talking to himself. Hands now forgotten, Hamish turned, his attention falling upon the detective.

"Yes! Yes, the car! Wait… No. No! Ugh! This is so infuriating!" he cried, letting out a disgruntled sound at his frustration.

Hamish, who had previously been entranced by his father's deductions, giggled loudly upon hearing the noise Sherlock made.

Almost having forgotten Hamish was sitting on his stomach, Sherlock's eyes flew open, his thoughts halting to a stop upon hearing his son's giggling.

"Oh," he sighed, pulling his hands apart as he peered down at Hamish. Still frustrated by the case, he ran his hands through his hair, ruffling the dark curls as he did so, which only made Hamish laugh further, the light sound filling the quiet flat.

Smiling at his son, who was practically gasping for breath, Sherlock reached down, picked up Hamish and lifted him into the air, holding him above his head.

"Is that funny, Hamish? Hmm? Do you think I'm silly?!" Sherlock cried playfully, over-exaggerating the word as he bounced Hamish, who was laughing loudly, gripping tightly onto his father's hands.

"Daddy!" he squealed happily, laughing down at his father.

"Come here!" Sherlock laughed, grinning widely at his son. Making quiet kissing noises, the detective lowered his arms until Hamish was hovering just above his face.

"Mwah!" he exclaimed comically, pressing a fun kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Who's my little boy?" he laughed, pressing ticklish kisses to Hamish's face, not caring how silly he sounded.

"Daddy!" the little boy cried happily, trying to shove his father away. He pressed both of his hands against Sherlock's lips, attempting to stop the stream of kisses.

Laughing heartily at his son's efforts, the detective parted his lips just slightly.

"Om nom nom!" he said, pretending to eat Hamish's fingers.

"Ah! No! No 'ease, Daddy!" the little boy exclaimed, quickly withdrawing his fingers from Sherlock's lips.

"I'm going to eat you!" the detective exclaimed comically, sitting Hamish on his stomach. He bent down, pressing his lips to his son's stomach and feet.

"I've got your toes!"

"What?! No! Daddy!"

Laughing, Sherlock withdrew his head, allowing Hamish to catch his breath.

Smiling widely at the giggling little boy, he gently brushed away some of Hamish's dark hair.

"Noo," he sighed happily, smiling down at his son, "I could never eat you." He paused, letting his hand rest on Hamish's stomach. "You'd be too sweet," he finished happily.

Giggling, Hamish peered up at his father, a sweet smile on his face.

"Up 'ease?" he asked quietly, stretching his arms up towards Sherlock.

Obliging, the detective pulled Hamish up, wrapping one arm around the little boy. He placed his hand on the back of Hamish's head.

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish murmured, talking into Sherlock's neck. He turned his head and pressed a light kiss to his father's jaw. Then, smiling widely, he took one hand and rubbed it against the detective's stomach, attempting to tickle him.

"I love you, too, Hamish," Sherlock said, laughing heartily as his son tried to tickle his stomach. "Oh no!" he cried dramatically, pretending to try and push Hamish's hands away. "Please stop! I can't take it!"

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy giggled, pulling his hand away. He peered up at Sherlock, eyes bright and a large smile on his face.

No longer laughing, but still beaming widely, Sherlock stared back down at Hamish. He froze as he looked into the little boy's dark eyes. This little boy—this incredible, tiny human being—his son—had truly changed him. His son… The words still made his whole body flood with love. He felt his breath catch in his throat, as it had so many times before.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked, pulling his father out of his reverie.

"Oh! Yes. Sorry, Hamish," he apologized, finding his breath again. "Well! What do you say we go for a little walk, hmm? It's getting colder, so we should go out as often as possible, and I need to clear my head, anyways. What do you think?"

"'Es, 'ease, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly, still smiling.

The warmth still warming his chest, Sherlock bent down and lifted Hamish up, moving him to the ground. He waited patiently, holding the little boy up until he was sure Hamish was balanced.

"Ready?" he asked.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good," Sherlock smiled. He stood up, but remained slightly hunched over so that Hamish could hold onto his hand.

"Now, I believe John took you out last… Hmm. You wouldn't happen to know where he put your coat, would you?"

Still holding tightly onto Sherlock's hand, the little boy thought for a second.

"Daddy room?" he asked, rather than stated.

"Let's go see." Taking small steps forward, Sherlock guided Hamish towards his room, gazing lovingly at the little boy as he walk forward, wobbling slightly.

 

After checking almost everywhere in the flat, the two eventually found that Hamish's small coat was underneath Sherlock's, hanging on the door. The detective knelt down, quickly pulled on the little boy's coat, and then stood up, pulling on his own as he did so.

"Okay," he said, giving Hamish his hand once again. "Here we go." The little boy began to walk forward, chewing his bottom lip as he did so. He held tightly onto his father's hand as he made his way towards the stairs.

Once at the landing, Sherlock kept one hand wrapped around Hamish's and used the other to undo the safety gate.

"Do you want to try the stairs today, Hamish?" he asked, turning his attention back to the little boy.

Upon seeing the utterly petrified look on Hamish's face, he chuckled and knelt down, almost at eye level with the little boy.

"Hamish," he laughed, "there's nothing to be afraid of. I'll be right with you the whole time. See?"

Remaining in his crouched position, Sherlock took one small step down until he was resting on the first stair step.

"You're sure you don't want to try?" he asked again, the corners of his lips turning upwards as Hamish began to fervently shake his head back and forth.

"Okay, okay," he laughed, shaking his head. "No stairs today." Sherlock smiled warmly, hoping to reassure the little boy. He opened his arms. "Come here," he said softly.

Hamish hurried forward, practically falling into his father's arms.

"Daddy," he sighed in relief. Still quite frightened by the stairs, though, he turned pressing his face into the soft fabric of Sherlock's coat.

Chuckling at his son, the detective placed a protective hand on the little boy's back as he quickly descended the stairs. Knowing that Hamish would probably not want to walk down the stairs outside, he opened the door, clearing the few steps that led away from the flat.

"Okay, Hamish. No more stairs," he said, smoothing down some of the little boy's unruly curls.

Cautiously, Hamish pulled his head out of Sherlock's coat, looking down to check that there were no more stairs.

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy!" he said cheerfully.

Chuckling, Sherlock placed Hamish on the ground. "Ready?" he asked, holding his hand out in front of the little boy.

"'Es, Daddy." An eager look on his face, Hamish reached forward, wrapping his chubby fingers around Sherlock's thumb.

Making sure Hamish was balanced, the detective stood up, closing his fingers around Hamish's small hand.

By now, having taken many walks together, a sort of tradition had formed between the detective and his son: the two would sit on a bench together and Hamish would point to a random passerby, upon which Sherlock would riddle off deductions, much to the delight of Hamish.

Seeing as Hamish had only taken a few walks so far where he was able to walk himself, it took much longer to reach the bench than usual.

"You can do it, Hamish! Almost there," Sherlock encouraged, noticing how the little boy was slowing down.

"'Kay, Daddy," he replied, walking as quickly as he could.

Shortly after, the two finally reached the bench. "Okay, Hamish. Up we go," Sherlock said, sitting down, and pulling the little boy up onto his lap.

"Hmm," Hamish sighed, glad to have a break from walking. He leaned back, snuggling into Sherlock.

"Okay," the detective sighed, wrapping one hand around the little boy's middle. "Who first, Hamish?"

"Ummmm… Them!" Hamish said excitedly, pointing to a woman walking on the other side of the street.

"Her," Sherlock corrected lightheartedly, smiling fondly at Hamish. "Okay," he said, turning his attention to the woman Hamish had pointed to. He raked his eyes over her as she walked briskly down the street.

"All right. Well, for starters, she's running late for work, her boyfriend just broke up with her; she has still yet to notice that she's wearing two different parts of a suit, and she smokes. And what does that mean, Hamish?" he asked, turning his attention to the little boy.

"Ew!" he replied firmly, giving a terse nod of his head.

"Very good! Ew."

Sherlock had been ordered by John to teach Hamish that smoking was unhealthy and bad, in the hope that the little boy would not follow in his father's footsteps.

"All right. Next one."

 

"Okay. Last one, Hamish," Sherlock said, rubbing his thumb across the little boy's stomach.

"Hmm… Them," he said decidedly, pointing to a man who was walking slowly towards them.

"Oh! Good one, Hamish!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly. Seeing as how the man was quickly approaching them, the detective leaned down, whispering into Hamish's ear. He whispered something just as the man hurried by, which sent the little boy into a fit of giggles.

"Daddy silly!" he laughed, turning around to hug the detective around the middle. He pressed his small form into Sherlock.

Chuckling, the detective wrapped his arms around Hamish in a hug. "All right. Time to go home, Hamish. Do you want to walk or shall I carry you?" he asked, leaning down to talk into the little boy's auburn hair.

"'Ulk, 'ease," he replied quietly.

"All right. You're sure?" Sherlock replied, ready to place the little boy on the ground.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied, looking contently into his father's face.

Smiling fondly, Sherlock placed Hamish on the ground, stood up, and lowered his hand. The two started home.

It took about five minutes before Sherlock felt a gentle tugging on his hand. He stopped, and turned back to look at Hamish.

"Daddy? Up 'ease?" he asked tiredly, squeezing his fingers as he pulled down on his father's hand.

"Of course," Sherlock said gently, smiling knowingly down at the little boy. He bent down, pulling Hamish up and onto his chest. Placing one hand on the back of his son's head, Sherlock continued to walk back towards the flat.

"Ta, Daddy," Hamish murmured, snuggling into his father's warm embrace.

"You're very welcome, Hamish."

Hamish remained snuggled tightly against his father as they walked home, peering at his passing surroundings with wide, curious eyes.

With Sherlock walking at his normal pace, the two soon reached the flat. Hamish continued to look around as his father began to unlock the door to the flat. He peered over the detective's shoulder. His eyes fell upon a woman walking with her daughter across the other side of the street. The little boy's eyebrows pulled together as he noticed the two were holding hands.

"Daddy?" he asked hurriedly, tapping on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes, Hamish?" he asked, looking at Hamish with questioning eyes.

In response, the little boy pointed hastily at the woman and the little girl across the street.

Sherlock's gaze followed the little boy's finger and fell upon the woman and her daughter.

"What about them, Hamish?" he asked, confused as to what his son was wanting.

"What, Daddy?" he asked, an almost desperate look on his face. Sherlock stared at the woman, suddenly understanding what Hamish was asking.

"Oh. That's a little girl with her mummy," he said quietly, turning his attention back to Hamish.

"Mummy?" he repeated slowly, an almost dazed look on his face. "What mummy?" he asked, still staring at the woman.

"Umm… Well…" Sherlock had been hoping to avoid having this conversation with Hamish until he was old enough to understand the extent of what the word 'mother' entailed, but he knew the little boy would be persistent. He pushed open the door to the flat, deciding just to give the little boy a brief overview of what a mother was and did.

He quickly pulled of Hamish's coat, hanging it up on the door, and then undid his own, placing it over Hamish's. Keeping Hamish close, he sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. He placed the little boy, who still appeared to be bewildered, on his lap.

"Hamish," he said, slowly, drawing the little boy's attention to his face.

"Oh," he said quietly. "'Es, Daddy. What mummy?" he asked gently.

"Well," Sherlock began, trying to decide how to phrase his words. "Okay. You know that I am your daddy, right?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied earnestly, nodding his head. He stared at Sherlock, waiting anxiously for his father's response.

"Okay… Well a mummy is sort of like a daddy, only instead of being a boy, a mummy is a girl. Do you understand?"

Hamish thought for a moment, his brows pulled tightly together. He began to play with some of Sherlock's shirt between his fingers, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

"'Es, Daddy," he replied slowly, his eyes slowly moving across the floor as he thought.

"All right. Well mummies are a little different. That's because before you're born," Sherlock started slowly, "you actually live inside your mummy's tummy." Hoping to help his son understand, Sherlock placed one hand over his stomach.

He looked up as he heard Hamish gasp out loud. The little boy's eyes were wide with wonder, and his mouth was hanging open.

"Daddy?!" he cried. Hurriedly, he leaned forward, pressing his head against Sherlock's stomach. He turned, pressing his ear against the detective's stomach. "Tummy, Daddy?" he asked, excitedly, moving both of his hands until they, too were resting against Sherlock's stomach.

"Wha?—Oh! No," Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. "No, Hamish. I can't have a baby inside of me. I'm a daddy. Only girls—mummies—can have babies inside of them. Not me," he chuckled, gently pulling Hamish's head away from his stomach.

"Oh," the little boy replied quietly. He looked up at Sherlock, confusion now in his eyes. He kept his hands resting against the detective's stomach.

"Hame Mummy?" he asked, staring at his father with wide eyes.

Sherlock sighed, having hoped to avoid this conversation. He tenderly placed one hand to the side of Hamish' face, running his thumb across the little boy's soft cheek.

"Yes, Hamish. You do have a mummy," he said slowly, whispering the words. "But I'm afraid I don't know who she is," he added hurriedly. "But, not too long ago, you were once inside a woman's tummy, Hamish." He hoped to draw attention away from the little boy's own mother, hoping he would not inquire further.

But it was clear the little boy didn't even understand the extent of what his father had just told him as a wide, bright smile was spread across his face.

"Hame, mummy's tummy?" he asked incredulously, gaping up at Sherlock.

The detective sighed in relief. "Yes, Hamish. You were once inside a tummy," he smiled, gently tickling Hamish's stomach with the tips of his fingers.

"Wow, Daddy!" the little boy exclaimed, giggling as his father tickled him. He gasped suddenly.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Mary Mummy!" he stated cheerfully, bouncing slightly in Sherlock's lap.

"Oh," the detective chuckled. "No, Hamish. Mary's not a mummy, I'm afraid. She is a girl, but she doesn't have a baby in her tummy. So that means she's not a mummy," he explained, deciding not to even begin to explain the process of adoption. That was definitely a conversation for another day.

Smiling sadly at the thought, Sherlock scooped Hamish into his arms, and stood up, holding the little boy close to his chest.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish replied, though it was clear he was still quite happy with this new discovery.

"Daddy?" he asked, tapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Yes?" the detective murmured.

In response, Hamish pointed to the window. Sherlock hurried over, holding his son on his hip. "What is it, Hamish?"

The little boy pressed his hand against the window, staring off into the direction the girl and her mother had walked.

"What Daddy?" he asked, turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"Do you mean where's the little girl's daddy?" the detective asked, trying to understand what Hamish was asking.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Oh… Well… Sometimes, in different families, you can have several different kinds of mummies and daddies," Sherlock began slowly. He turned around, and began to slowly pace around the flat. Gently, he moved Hamish, snuggling the little boy close to his neck.

Knowing his father was going to speak, Hamish nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, sighing contently as the detective began to rub his hand up and down his back.

Sherlock continued, "In some families, there's one mummy and one daddy. Sometimes there can be two daddies or two mummies. There can be just one mummy, or, like us, there's just one daddy. You and I have one daddy and no mummy," he murmured quietly, watching Hamish's face for a reaction.

Taking a deep breath, the little boy leaned further into Sherlock, closing his eyes as he thought.

Hesitantly, the detective asked, "Hamish? Is it okay with you that there's just one daddy? That you have no mummy and me as your daddy? Does that make you sad?" he whispered, anxiously waiting for the little boy's response.

Eventually, Hamish opened his eyes and peered up at his father.

"No, Daddy... No Hame, mummy. 'Ove, Daddy... 'Ove one Daddy," he whispered, looking up at Sherlock with reassuring eyes.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed, an overwhelming sense of happiness flooding his veins. "I love you, Hamish. I love you so much," he murmured, already feeling tears begin to burn in his eyes. Lovingly, he pressed his lips to Hamish's forehead, tucking the little boy's head underneath his chin as he felt a few hot tears slide free.

"Love one daddy…" he murmured to himself, smiling in relief. He hugged Hamish closer, and tenderly kissed the little boy again, letting his lips linger against his son's soft skin.

He felt Hamish begin to speak, the little boy's lips brushing against his skin.

"Daddy 'ove one Hame?" he whispered quietly.

Sherlock choked back a cry upon hearing his son's question.

"Oh, Hamish…" he sighed, another tear falling down his face. "Always. I'll always love you. My one Hamish… My one Hamish…" He couldn't help but press another soft kiss to his son's soft hair. He felt the little boy sigh against his skin.

"My Hamish," he murmured. "Always… Always, my Hamish."


	16. Time With John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers! I am so sorry I couldn't get this up this morning, but unfortunately, I've had a crazy amount of exams this week, and a very minimal amount of time to write. So I decided that I would come home and finish this quickly today, and just post it late in the day. So I sincerely apologize for this being so late up today, though I hope you enjoy it anyway! =/ This chapter is for everyone who's been asking for some John time (but don't worry DaddySherlock lovers: there's some fluff at the end). =D Thank you everyone for all of your truly wonderful reviews I got on the last chapter. They really help!
> 
> Please enjoy!
> 
> Again, so sorry for it not being up this morning! Next chapter will be up on Sunday. Thanks!

"Yes. Of course. I'll be right over, Lestrade," Sherlock said, grabbing his coat. He turned back around to John, who was reading a children's book to Hamish on his lap.

"John, Lestrade needs me." He glanced at Hamish. "Kidnapping," he mouthed excitedly.

The doctor chuckled darkly.

"You could be a little less excited," he joked, rolling his eyes.

"But, John," the detective all-but-whined, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "It's been nearly two weeks since I've had a decent case!" he exclaimed. "I need some kind of brain stimulation! And," he added, whispering so Hamish wouldn't hear, "this one looks simply marvelous!"

"Daddy 'eaving?" came Hamish's small voice from where he was sitting on John's lap.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed sadly. He held his arms out, prompting John to stand up and pass the little boy to the detective.

"Yes, Hamish," he said, looking at the little boy with sad eyes. "But I won't be long. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?" he promised tenderly, brushing the back of his fingers across Hamish's cheek.

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy replied mournfully.

"Oh, Hamish, it's okay," Sherlock whispered gently. "Besides… You're going to have far more fun with John then I'll be having," he added cheerfully, hoping to lift his son's spirits.

"Fun at John?" Hamish whispered hopefully, peering up at Sherlock.

"Yes!" the detective replied enthusiastically, giving the little boy a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

"Oh… 'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish replied happily, forgetting all of his trepidation.

"There's my boy," Sherlock murmured quietly, the corners of his lips turning up in a loving smile. "All right. Can I have a hug, then?"

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy!"

Smiling, Hamish haphazardly threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, squeezing his chubby arms tightly together. He pressed his head into the detective's coat.

"Bye-bye, Daddy," he whispered, snuggling further into Sherlock's neck.

The detective felt a twinge of sadness constrict his chest, momentarily stopping his breathing. Trying not to think about it, he quickly brushed the feeling aside, placing one hand on the back of Hamish's small head.

"Goodbye, Hamish," he murmured, gently kissing the little boy's cheek.

Slowly, keeping his hand on the back of Hamish's head, he pulled the little boy away so he could look at his face.

"Now," he said seriously, though he couldn't help but smile as he peered into Hamish's dark green eyes. "Do I get a kiss, then? I mean, it's only logical, seeing how I gave you one." He grinned upon feeling Hamish giggle in his arms.

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy laughed. With some help from his father, the little boy stretched his small body upward and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

"Mmm. Thank you, Hamish," the detective whispered, feeling a warmth spread through his chest where the sadness had previously been residing. He peered at John, noticing how his flat mate was looking fondly at the little boy.

"Well, then! I'd better be off." He turned his attention back to Hamish. "You be good for, John, okay? I'll be back soon." After pressing another quick kiss to his son's cheek, Sherlock (almost reluctantly) passed the little boy back to John.

"Text me if anything happens," he said to his flat mate, though he was still gazing at Hamish.

"Sherlock, we'll be fine," John replied, smiling in reassurance at his friend. "Besides, we're going to have a lot of fun together, aren't we, Hame?" he asked lightly, bouncing the little boy in his arms.

"'Es, Daddy. Fun at John," Hamish told Sherlock happily, almost as if he, too, was trying to reassure the detective.

"Of course," Sherlock whispered, smiling at both John and the little boy in his arms. "Bye, Hamish. Thank you, John," he called, hurrying down the stairs. He turned around briefly to see his son waving a goodbye with one small, chubby hand.

"Bye, Hamish," he whispered, knowing that even though his son couldn't hear him, the little boy would understand.

He hurried outside, into the brisk night air, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath, trying to clear away the unusual feeling of longing that was building in his chest.

Though he'd gone to the Yard several times already, always leaving Hamish with John, the strange longing he felt to be with his son and know that he was safe only seemed to grow each time he went. And he was afraid it would be worse this time, seeing as this would be the first time he would not be home by the time Hamish went to bed…

"He'll be fine. You're being ridiculous, he muttered to himself half-heartedly, hailing a cab as he did so. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, Sherlock hopped into the cab, peering back at the door of 221B as he car quickly sped away down the street.

"Well, then!" John said cheerfully, bouncing Hamish in his arms as he heard the front door shut. "Shall we continue reading, then?"

"'Es 'ease, John," Hamish replied.

"Very good manners, Hame," he praised happily. Minding Hamish, he leaned down, picking up the book they had been reading together. He meandered over to his chair, plopping down, and then moved Hamish onto his lap.

"Okay, then. Now… Hmm… Where did we leave off?" he asked, feigning curiosity.

"Was it… here?" he asked, flipping back to the first page of the book.

"No, John!" Hamish giggled, reaching forward with one hand. He grabbed hold of the book and began flipping through the pages until he found they one they had left off at.

"John," he stated proudly, tapping the page with his finger.

Smiling at Hamish, John positioned the book so that both him and the little boy could see and began reading; making sure to do the voices he knew Hamish loved.

John finished reading the book, grinning each time Hamish would giggle at the voices he made.

As he sat the book down on his lap, Hamish turned around, gripping a fistful of the doctor's jumper in his hand.

"John silly," he giggled sweetly, staring into the doctor's eyes.

"Yeah.. I suppose I am pretty silly, aren't I? I mean I've been willing living with your father for several years. And someone would have to be pretty silly to do that," he chuckled, gently tickling Hamish's stomach.

"'Es!" the little boy laughed, gently pushing away John's hand. "Now?" he asked, still smiling.

"Now what… Hmm… Well I suppose we could play hide and seek! How does that sound, hmm?" John asked excitedly, wrapping one hand around Hamish's middle.

"What, John?" the little boy asked quietly, still holding onto the doctor's jumper.

"You've never played hide and seek before?" John asked incredulously.

Hamish thought for a moment, before shaking his head. "No," he said plainly, ready for John to explain.

"Right, then," he said, standing up from the chair. He placed Hamish on the ground and knelt down, keeping a firm hold around the little boy's middle

"Okay. Hide and see. Here's how this works. I'm going to hide," he paused, looking around the flat, "like this," he finished, hurrying over to squat behind his chair. "All right, Hamish. Now come and see if you can find me."

Thoroughly confused, Hamish toddled over to John's chair and hesitantly peered behind.

"John?" he asked cautiously, as if he was afraid the doctor was going to jump out and frighten him. When he spotted John crouching behind the chair, he giggled, running forward to meet the doctor.

"John!" he laughed, wrapping his chubby arms around the doctor's wrist.

"Very good job, Hamish! You found me! Right. Ready to go again?"

"'Es, John."

The doctor smiled. "Good. All right, close your eyes and I'm going to hide again, okay?"

"'Kay, John," Hamish replied cheerfully, placing his hands over his eyes.

Chuckling quietly, John hurried over to the couch and lay down, pulling all of the pillows on top of himself. And, though he was clearly still visible, the doctor draped his arm over the side of the couch, letting his hand rest against the ground.

"Okay, Hamish!" he called, "I'm ready. You can come and find me."

"'Kay, John!" the little boy called back, his voice slightly muffled by his hands, which were now more or less covering his nose and mouth, rather than his eyes.

Excitedly, Hamish began to run around the flat, not knowing that John was carefully watching him.

"Jo-ohn!" he called, giggling wildly when he heard the doctor call back, "John? Who's John?"

"Silly," the little boy giggled to himself (sounding eerily similar to a certain detective), and hurried over to the couch. He squatted down, staring intently at John's hand. Slowly, he raked his eyes over the couch, crying, "John!" when he saw the doctor's face peering at him from under a mound of pillows.

"Oh no!" You found me," John sighed comically. "I think you're just too smart for me, hmm?" he said, bending down to pickup the little boy. "Come on, then. Next round."

John and Hamish were interrupted from their playing by the sound of the doctor's phone going off.

Smiling fondly at the little boy, John stood up, pulling his phone out of his pocket. New text from Sherlock. He rolled his eyes happily, knowing the detective was checking up on them.

Everything going well?

SH

John chuckled, quickly typing back a reply.

Yes, Sherlock. We're fine and safe. Just got done playing together. Quick TV time then he's off to bed. Case?

"John?"

The doctor turned around to see Hamish staring intently at the phone in his hands. He was just about to ask if the little boy would like to say goodnight to his father when his phone beeped again, buzzing in his hands.

Marvelous! Terribly exciting. Explain later.

SH

Chuckling, John closed the phone in hands and turned back to the little boy, who was still looking curiously at the phone.

"Hame?" he asked, "would you like to call Daddy and say goodnight to him quickly before you go to bed?"

The little boy's eyes widened with wonder. He pointed at the phone.

"Daddy?" he asked incredulously.

John chuckled. "Sort of. What do you say? Want to give him a call?"

Though it was clear the little boy didn't fully understand how his father could possibly be in the small object in John's hands, Hamish nodded vigorously, hurrying forwards towards the doctor.

Smiling at the little boy's wonder, John picked Hamish up and moved over to the couch, sitting him on his lap. He quickly dialed Sherlock's number, putting the phone on speaker so Hamish could hear. As the mobile began to ring, with sheer excitement and wonder, Hamish reached forward, pressing his fingers to the screen.

"Wow..." he sighed, utterly amazed. He was so engrossed in the new object that when it clicked to life and and he could hear his father's voice calling, "John?! What happened, is everything all right?" the little boy jumped back, shocked by the sound of Sherlock's voice coming from object.

"No, Sherlock, everything's all right, Hamish just-"

"Daddy?" Hamish shouted, shoving his small face close to the phone. He called again, even louder, "Daddy!" which was met by the sound of Sherlock's deep laugh coming from the other end of the line.

"Hello, Hamish," he chuckled. "And there's no need to shout; I can hear you just fine, I promise."

Hamish gasped, turning back to John with wide eyes.

"Hello, Daddy!" he said excitedly, turning back to the phone.

"Hamish just wanted to say goodnight before he heads off to bed," John explained, chuckling at Hamish's amazement.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy agreed happily.

"Ah. I see," Sherlock replied, smiling contently.

"Nigh' Daddy. 'Ove," Hamish said loudly, causing both the detective and doctor to chuckle.

"Goodnight, Hamish. I love you, too. Thank you for calling me to tell me goodnight," he laughed happily. "Have you had a good time with John?"

"Oh! 'Es Daddy! Fun at John!" Very excited to share the news of his day with his father, Hamish launched into a very long explanation of what had happened that day, most of which was just unintelligible babbling.

"Ohh... Yes?... I see..." Sherlock murmured every once in a while, smiling widely at his son's summary of the day.

The little boy finished with a nod of his head, a small smile on his face. "'Kay, Daddy!" he said proudly, pressing his face closer to the phone. "Daddy fun?" he asked, concerned.

"Did I have fun? Well... Not as much as it sounded like you had!" Hamish giggled happily.

"'Kay, Daddy! 'Nigh!" He reached forward, wrapping his arms around the phone. "'Ove, Daddy," he called, making a kissing noise towards the screen.

Sherlock chuckled. "Goodnight, Hamish," he laughed, making a kissing noise back, which received much giggling from Hamish.

"'Night, John. Thank you," the detective added.

"'Course," the doctor replied happily. "Say, 'bye, Daddy'!"

"Bye, Daddy!" Hamish repeated happily. Sherlock chuckled before ending the call with a loud click.

John chuckled and chucked the phone away, tossing it on the other end of the couch.

"All right, Hame," he said, "let's watch some cartoons quickly before we go to bed, hmm?"

Upon hearing John speak, Hamish looked back from where he had been staring at the phone on the couch.

"Nigh' nigh'?" he asked quietly. John couldn't help but laugh.

"Is that what Daddy calls it?" he chuckled, the idea of Sherlock having said that sounding incredibly humorous.

"What, John?" Hamish asked, not understand why the doctor was laughing.

apping his arms around the little boy. "Ohhh," he groaned softly. "You're getting so big, aren't you?" he asked, bouncing Hamish on his legs.

"'Es, John..." the little boy replied quickly, clearing anxious to say something else.

"John?" he asked timidly.

"Yes, Hame?"

"Daddy for nigh' night?" he asked nervously.

"Oh..." John replied. He'd forgotten: this would be the first time Sherlock had left for a case, but had not returned by the time the little boy was to go to bed.

"Um... I don't know, Hame," John replied slowly. "But how about this: How about Daddy before we go to bed, and you can talk to him for a little while, okay? Hmm? How does that sound?"

The little boy contemplated for a moment, drawing his eyebrows together, before he looked back at John. "'Kay, John."

The doctor sighed in relief. "Good." He sat back into the couch, flipping the TV on as he did so. "Okay, Hame. How does-"

"Train!" the little boy cried triumphantly, pointing his chubby finger towards the screen. John laughed, pulling the little boy close to his chest.

Sighing happily, Hamish leaned back, letting his head rest against John's chest. Eyes staring at the screen, he absentmindedly began to play with the sleeve of John's jumper, rubbing his chubby fingers back and forth across the fabric.

John gazed fondly down at Hamish, smiling slightly. He really was a sweet little boy... The doctor couldn't help but tighten his grip around the little boy, his own paternal instincts kicking in. Feeling almost bittersweet, he leaned down to press a quick kiss to the little boy's head.

 

 

A little while later, when John had started to notice how Hamish's eyes were fluttering closed, he turned the TV off and slowly moved the little boy around in his arms.

Trying not to jostle the almost-sleeping little boy, John slowly meandered into Sherlock's room, gently bouncing Hamish as he walked.

He quickly changed the little boy's nappy, and grabbed a pair of pajama trousers (they had discovered that Hamish much preferred to sleep either without a shirt or just in his nappy.).

"Okay," he sighed quietly, gently laying Hamish in his cot. He tucked the covers around his small form and then bent down, pressing a light kiss to the little boy's forehead.

"'Night, Hame," he whispered, though the little boy was already asleep.

He quietly crept out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He found his phone, picked it up and began writing a text.

He's sound asleep. See? I told you you were worried about nothing.

He clicked send, and then grabbed his laptop, plopping down in his chair. The phone buzzed.

Maybe. Glad he's asleep. Thank you, again, John.

SH

Knowing Sherlock wouldn't require a reply, the doctor continued working on his laptop.

It wasn't long, though, before he heard movement coming from Sherlock's room, followed by an almost-inaudible, "John!"

The doctor stood up, placing the computer on his chair and hurried to Sherlock's bedroom. He slowly pushed open the door, peering over at the little boy's cot.

"Hamish? What's wrong?" he asked gently, upon seeing how the little boy was standing up in his cot, crying. He hurried over and picked up the little boy.

Hamish sniffled as John sat down on the bed, placing the little boy in his lap.

"Daddy," he sniffled sadly, staring at his hands. "Daddy not nigh' night. No Hame nigh' night," he cried sadly, wrapping his arms around John's middle.

"Oh, Hamish," John almost chuckled. "Shh... It's okay. Would you like to come sit with me? And then we'll see if we can't get daddy home?How's that sound?"

"'Es, 'ease, John... Ta."

The doctor smiled. "You're welcome. Come on, then," he said, standing up off the bed. He placed Hamish on the ground, and, with one hand on the little boy's back, guided him out of the room.

"Do you want to watch some TV, Hame?" he asked, walking over to his chair. He pulled the little boy onto his lap, hoping he would fall asleep and he wouldn't have to pull Sherlock away from his case.

"No 'ease, John. Daddy?"

John sighed quietly. "All right, then. We can call daddy."

"'Es 'ease," Hamish replied sleepily, rubbing his fist into one of his eyes as he yawned widely.

The doctor pulled out his phone, and quickly dialed Sherlock's number.

"Yes?" the detective answered almost immediately.

"Daddy?" Hamish called tiredly, leaning up towards the phone in John's hand.

"Do you want to talk to him, Hame?" The little boy nodded, yawning widely as he did so.

John quickly switched the mobile to speaker. "Okay, Hame. Go ahead." He gave a small nod of encouragement.

"Hello, Hamish," Sherlock said gently.

Upon hearing his father's voice, and sleepiness getting the better of him, Hamish began to cry again. "Daddy... Home," he whimpered, turning around and pressing his face into John's stomach.

"John? What's happened? Is he okay?" Sherlock asked frantically.

Peering sadly down at the little boy, John placed a soothing hand on his back. He pulled the phone back to his ear.

"No, Sherlock, he's fine. He's just really tired, is all. He's very distraught, however, that you're not here to help him sleep," John added, almost apologetically, knowing the detective would probably not want to be called away from the case.

"I'm on my way," Sherlock said determinedly.

"No, Sherlock. Really, it's okay-" But the detective had already hung up. He turned his attention back to Hamish, who was still crying into his jumper.

"Shh," he murmured, running his hand up and down the little boy's back. "Hame, what's wrong? Why are you so upset?" he asked gently.

"Daddy..." Hamish sniffled, "D-daddy 'uk bad 'eam bye..."

John though for a moment, trying to make sense of what the little boy had said.

"Oh," he sighed sadly, upon realizing what the little boy meant. He leaned down, resting his head on top of Hamish's. "Did you have a bad dream?" he asked gently. He felt the little boy nod against his chest. "And Daddy makes the bad dreams go away, doesn't he?"

"'Es, John," Hamish cried sadly, pulling his head away from the doctor's jumper. "Daddy home?" he whispered.

Tenderly, John moved his hand and rubbed his thumb across Hamish's cheek, wiping away some of his tears. "Shh, Hamish. It's okay. Daddy's going to be home any minute," he promised reassuringly. He saw Hamish's eyes brighten ever so slightly.

"Oh..." he sighed, leaning into John's touch as another tear slid silently down his cheek.

"It's okay. I'm sorry you had a bad dream, Hame," John murmured, brushing away more tears as he did so.

"Mmm. 'Kay, John."

"Do you want to talk about it? Sometimes talking helps," he offered.

"No, John," Hamish replied firmly. "Bad."

"Bad..." John repeated sadly, hugging the little boy close. He made a mental note not to tell Sherlock as it would only worry him more.

"Here. Come on up here," he whispered gently, scooting the little boy up and wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug.

"Ta, John," Hamish sighed happily. The two sat there until they were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

"John?" came the worried voice of Sherlock. In a few moments, the detective had reached the landing, his coat billowing behind him.

Upon hearing his father's voice, Hamish turned around in John's arms and glanced hopefully towards the stairs.

"Daddy!" he cried, practically jumping off of John's lap. He hurried over, wrapping his arms around the detective's leg.

"Daddy home," he sighed happily, pressing his face into the soft fabric of his father's trousers.

Sherlock shared a quick glanced with John before bending down and lifting the little boy up.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm home," he murmured quietly, hugging the little boy close. "What's wrong, hmm? Just can't sleep?" He felt Hamish nod against his chest.

"No nigh' night at no Daddy," he said, pulling back so he could peer up at his father. "No nigh' night..." he whispered quietly, his chubby fingers curling around the collar of Sherlock's coat.

"I'm sorry," the detective apologized quietly, noticing the tears that were still on his son's small face. "I didn't mean to make you cry..." Tenderly, he used the back of his fingertips to brush away the last of Hamish's tears.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed, leaning forward to rest his head at the base of his father's neck. Sleepily, he leaned up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, and pressed a tender kiss to the corner of the detective's lips.

"'Kay, Daddy," he reassured sweetly. "'Etter Daddy home."

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed, smiling sadly at his son. "You're just... Wonderful. I love you," he murmured, leaning forward. Very gently, he kissed Hamish's cheek, inhaling deeply as that strange feeling of longing that had been residing in his chest suddenly dissipated.

"Come on, then, Hamish. Let's get some sleep," he whispered, placing one hand on the back of his son's head. Cuddling the little boy close, he walked over to the couch, and with the help of John, managed to shed his coat. He sat down, and leaned back, moving Hamish so the little boy was resting in his lap.

Realizing how truly tired he was, Hamish leaned forward, and pressed his small form into Sherlock. He closed his eyes, and reached one arm up towards his father's face.

Love in his eyes, Sherlock wrapped his slender fingers around Hamish's small hand. He pressed his hand to his chest, giving the little boy a reassuring squeeze.

"Goodnight, Hamish. Sleep well. I love you," he whispered quietly, pressing a loving kiss to his son's auburn curls.

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish managed to murmur before quickly falling asleep, wrapped in the comfort of his father's embrace.

Smiling at his son, Sherlock leaned back further so the little boy was in a better position, rather than sitting up. Keeping the little boy stable, he placed one hand Hamish's back, and began to absentmindedly rub his thumb back and forth over the bare skin, a wave of happiness rushing over him.

"You really are wonderful with him," John said quietly, pulling the detective away from his thoughts.

"Hmm? Oh-Well... Yes-I mean I suppose," he stumbled awkwardly, now embarrassed.

"It's not a bad thing, Sherlock," John chuckled. "I was just merely observing, as you so often like to say. He really is a wonderful kid. Very sweet. I actually had a pretty good time. We had no problems all day-well... Up until he had to go to sleep of course."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, peering at John as the doctor moved to his chair. "I knew I shouldn't have left. He wasn't ready," he added guiltily, subconsciously tightening his grip around Hamish's hand, though he couldn't help but as he felt the little boy sigh against his chest. "Mmm," Hamish murmured, turning his head so his cheek was pressing against Sherlock's chest.

Smiling at his two flat-mates, John continued talking. "I'm not surprised he's so tired; we had a pretty jam-packed day... Most of which was spent playing hide and seek," he chuckled to himself.

"What, John? Hide and seek?" Sherlock asked confusedly.

"What? You mean-You've never heard of hide and seek?" John exclaimed incredulously.

"John," the detective replied slowly, talking in his usual "how-much-of-an-idioit-could-you-be" voice. "You saw how I turned out. Do you think my parents did much of anything with me? Well... besides send me away so they could be rid of me," he added, muttering to himself. He shook his head. "In answer to your original question: No. My parents never played hide and seek with me."

"Oh," John said, slightly saddened by the thought of what Sherlock's childhood must have been like. "Umm... How's the case going?"

"Oh!" Sherlock said excitedly, his eyes brightening with that usual glint he got when he was on a case. "It's simply beautiful. It's so intricate. The kidnapper is brilliant! And of course, that means more fun for me," he added, smiling widely at John. "I will be needing your assistance, though on this one... So... Umm..." he added guiltily, suddenly very interested in the floor. "That means we'll be needing to bring Hamish to the Yard tomorrow."

"What?" John cried, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. "You can't be serious-Sherlock he's a little child. You cannot just-No. The answer is no," he said firmly, glaring at his flat mate.

"Oh please, John," the detective replied, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I'm taking him to a crime scene! He'll be fine. He'll stay with the two of us the whole time. Besides, it's about time he got out and about to see some of the city," he added gently, gazing fondly down as the little boy took a deep breath.

"But-"

"No. It's not up for discussion. I've already talked to Lestrade. It's all settled. It'll be fun! Besides," he said smugly, "I'll finally get to show off Hamish to everyone. Can't wait to see the look on Donovan's and Anderson's faces." He grinned widely as John rolled his eyes.

"Why am I not surprised?" he sighed, standing up. "Just... Play nice, okay?" he begged.

"Is that a yes, John?" Sherlock replied slyly, smiling as he saw the doctor's eyes narrow at him.

"You're insufferable," he muttered, marching towards the stairs.

"'Night, John," the detective chuckled, smiling smugly to himself.

"Mmm," the doctor replied tersely. He turned around, though, and walked back. "Not sleeping tonight?" he asked.

"No. Need to think. Sleep is a waste of my time. Besides," he added, glancing down at Hamish. "I don't want to wake him." He quickly brushed his thumb over the little boy's back.

"Hmm," John chuckled quietly, smiling at the sleeping boy.

"Right. 'Night, then," he said quickly, attempting to march away again, though he knew he had already lost this battle.

Smiling slyly as he heard John hurry up the stairs to his room, Sherlock, moving very slowly, moved until he was lying down on the couch, Hamish resting on his chest. He closed his eyes, focusing on the reassuring feeling of Hamish's smooth skin beneath his hand; on his son's steady breathing; on the light, beautiful noises the little boy made as he slept; focusing on the way Hamish's fingers curled beneath his hand, resting lightly on his chest. Taking a deep breath in, he allowed himself to escape, delving deep into the details of the case.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed quietly, sleeping soundly on his father's chest.


	17. The Yard

Sherlock glanced at the clock. 9:41.

"Okay," he whispered, slowly rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back. "Time to get up. We've got a big day," he finished excitedly, leaning down to gently kiss Hamish's silky curls.

"Mmm... Da'ey?" the little boy asked groggily, slowly turning his head against Sherlock's chest. He groaned, yawning widely into the detective's shirt. "Up time?" he asked, lifting his head to peer tiredly at his father.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled. "Time to get up. But guess what, Hamish?"

"'Es, Daddy? What?" Hamish replied, waking up at the excited tone of his father's voice.

"We're going out today. Annnnnd," he elongated comically, "you get to help me with a case! Isn't that exciting?" he finished enthusiastically, ruffling the little boy's curls.

"Case, Daddy? What?" Hamish asked, giggling as Sherlock stopped ruffling his hair.

"Well... You know how John is a doctor and that's his job, right?"

"Umm... 'Kay, Daddy," he said, sounding unsure of himself.

"Well my job is solving cases—like mysteries. And today you get to help me with one!"

"Oh... Um... 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish said, not understanding. Sherlock laughed, smiling broadly at his son.

"You'll see soon," he chuckled, quickly kissing the little boy's cheek. "Come on, then. We need to wake John up. Would you like to?"

The little boy giggled in response.

"All right, then. Let's go," Sherlock smiled, getting up off the couch. Bouncing the little boy in his arms, the detective made his way to the stairs, grinning at the small, tired smile on his son's face. As the detective hurried up the stairs, Hamish's chubby fingers curled around the collar of his shirt.

"Shh," Sherlock whispered quietly to Hamish before pushing open the door to John's room.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered, using his free hand to cover his mouth. Smiling at the little boy, Sherlock pushed open the door to John's room, keeping a firm hold around Hamish's waist.

"Okay," he whispered, walking over to John's bed. "There you go," he groaned quietly, bending over the doctor's sleeping form to place Hamish on the bed.

"Daddy," he giggled quietly as he crawled over towards John's face. He situated himself closely towards the doctor's body. "John?" he whispered, smiling widely. "Joo-ohn?" Giggling, he prodded John's face with a single small finger.

"Wha'? Hamish? What's—Where's Daddy?" He yawned widely, wrapping one hand around Hamish's middle. Scooting the little boy closer, he rolled over to see Sherlock grinning at him.

"Morning, John. Hurry and get dressed!" he said excitedly.

"Ugh... Sherlock..." He glanced back at the detective and paused before finishing, "Fine."

"Excellent! Come on, then, Hamish. Let's go get ready!"

"'Es, Daddy!" Grinning, Hamish crawled over John's body, and reached his chubby arms up towards Sherlock.

"Be quick, John," the detective said excitedly as he hurried over towards the bed. Smiling at his son's own enthusiasm, Sherlock scooped the little boy into his arms. He hurried towards the stairs, closing the door behind him.

 

Eventually, the trio had finally managed to successfully eat, get dressed, and grab everything they would need for the day, such as food for Hamish, nappies, and items to keep him occupied at the Yard.

"Ready, John?" Sherlock asked happily. Hamish situated safely on his hip, he turned around to see the doctor, with two rather large bags in each hand, glaring at him.

"You could lend me a hand, you know."

"Well of course I could. Do please stop stating the obvious, John, and let's go. Ready Hamish?" he asked, turning on his heel to walk out the door.

"Of course," John huffed. Muttering angrily to himself, he began walking towards the stairs, glad he couldn't see the smirk he knew was on Sherlock's face right now.

At the bottom of the landing, Sherlock waited patiently for John to make his way down the stairs. He turned his attention to Hamish, who was gripping tightly to the collar of his coat with one hand, and slowly tracing his clavicle with the other. The little boy seemed rather dazed, now, by the whole situation. "Mmm," he hummed to himself, staring at the door with his mouth hanging open slightly.

Sherlock peered lovingly at the little boy as he began to mumble to himself, tightening his grip around the detective's collar.

"Wh'? No... Mmm..."

The detective couldn't help but smile as he realized just how much like him Hamish was turning out to be, already beginning to mumble to himself.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, brushing the back of his hand across the little boy's forehead.

"Hmm? What, Daddy?" Still dazed, Hamish turned his attention back to Sherlock's face. His hand paused momentarily as he looked up at the detective.

"You okay?" Sherlock chuckled quietly, twirling some of the little boy's hair between his fingers.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly. He shook his head at the sound of John bustling down the stairs, and gazed up at Sherlock. "'Ink, Daddy," he stated happily, his hand resuming the tracing of his father's collarbone.

"You were thinking, hmm? Well you'll have to tell me what you were thinking about later, okay? Because right now," he drawled, turning back towards the stairs, "I think John has finally made his way down the stairs." He smirked as the doctor practically growled at him.

Sherlock chuckled deeply. He stopped twirling Hamish's hair between his fingers, and stretched his arm out towards the doctor. "Here," he offered smugly.

Chuckling at this flat mate, John passed the heaviest bag off to Sherlock. "Thanks," he sighed.

Bag in hand, Hamish on his hip, Sherlock pushed open the door, and walked out into the brisk morning air, John right on his heels.

"I've got it," the doctor said, hailing a cab with his free hand.

"You ready, Hamish?" Sherlock asked excitedly, bouncing the little boy in his arms as his flat mate hurried into the cab.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good!" Smiling at his son, Sherlock stepped into the cab, chuckling as he felt Hamish tuck his head under his chin, as the little boy did every time the two got into a cab.

"Scotland Yard," John told the cabbie. As the car sped away, Sherlock situated the bags in the middle of the cab and moved Hamish onto his lap.

"Look," he murmured, pointing out the window.

Though Hamish had been out and about many times before, he had yet to experience being in the heart of London, with huge buildings and large numbers of people.

Looking in the direction his father had pointed, Hamish stood up, scrambling towards the window. Using Sherlock's thigh as a sort of step, he pressed his hand against the window, splaying his chubby fingers across the glass as he stared out at the busy city.

"Wow," he whispered, staring wide-eyed at the passing buildings. "Look, Daddy!" He pointed excitedly, tearing his gaze away from the window to look excitedly at Sherlock.

"Yes, I see," he replied enthusiastically, wrapping one hand around Hamish's small stomach to keep him steady.

Throughout the entire short ride to the Yard, Hamish stared wide-eyed out the window, making sure to point out anything he found to be exceptionally extraordinary, which always received an enthusiastic reply from either Sherlock or John.

"Okay, Hamish. This is it," Sherlock told the little boy happily as the cab pulled up outside of their destination.

He grabbed one bag, slinging it over his shoulder as John grabbed the other, and then turned his attention back to Hamish, whose face was pressed tightly against the glass, peering up at the tall building they were stopped in front of.  
"Wow, Daddy," he sighed in amazement. "Look."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock beamed. "And guess what, Hamish? We get to go in there."

Both he and John laughed out loud as they heard little Hamish gasp in wonder.

"Come on, then," John inputted happily, opening the door on his side of the cab.

Still chuckling at the amazement on his son's face, Sherlock pushed open the door, pulling Hamish close as he did so and exited the cab.

Though previously in awe of the building and the vast amount of people surrounding it, now that he was out of the safety of the cab, Hamish clearly seemed intimidated by his new surroundings. As Sherlock began to make his way towards the building, the little boy pressed his head just below the detective's jaw and wrapped his arms tightly around his father's neck.

"Daddy," he whimpered against Sherlock's smooth skin.

"Shh," the detective murmured reassuringly. "It's okay. I'm right here and John's just there behind us. See?"

Cautiously, Hamish pulled his head a way from Sherlock's neck just long enough to check and see if John really was following them. When he saw the doctor, close behind, smiling reassuringly, Hamish sighed in relief.

"'Kay, Daddy." Now more content, he returned to his previous position, and let his head rest against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Okay," John said as they reached the front doors. "Here we go." With a wide grin, Sherlock pushed through the doors, ignoring the whispering that instantly started. John smirked, knowing Sherlock was positively loving all of the attention he was already getting. And even though he knew the detective would never admit it, John could tell Sherlock truly was excited to be able to show Hamish to everyone, proud of the fact that he could claim the little boy as his son. The thought made the doctor smile to himself.

Hamish was clearly overwhelmed by all of the staring and whispering from the people around him.

Becoming increasingly more anxious, and now seriously doubting what Sherlock had told him about this trip being fun, Hamish tapped one of his fingers against the back of Sherlock's neck. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"What doing, Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, gazing up at the detective. His eyes quickly scanned the room, peering anxiously at the many chattering people.

The trio reached the lift. As John punched in the button, Sherlock turned Hamish around in his arms.

"It's okay, Hamish," he said reassuringly. "There's nothing to be worried about. We're just going to see Lestrade."

"Oh," the little boy replied, though he still appeared uneasy.

Sherlock smiled, hoping to reassure his son. He leaned forward, and very gently kissed Hamish's cheek. "It's okay," he repeated, murmuring against the little boy's skin.

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy."

"Good man," John said quietly, gazing over at his flat mates.

They reached their floor, and Hamish jumped slightly in Sherlock's arms at the sound of the bell ringing.

Both John and Sherlock took a deep breath as the doors slowly slid open.

"Ready?" John muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Oh yes," the detective whispered back, his lips turning up into a sly half-smile.

John chuckled to himself as Sherlock hurried out of the lift, shaking his head as the detective hurried forward towards Lestrade's office.

As soon as Hamish noticed that this part of the building was much more quiet and calm, he relaxed in Sherlock's arms. The detective couldn't help but smile sweetly as he felt Hamish relax against him.

"Lestrade," he called happily towards the Inspector's office.

Upon hearing his name, Greg looked up from where he was sitting at his desk.

"Oh!" he cried, standing up as John and Sherlock entered his office. "Sorry, guys. Almost forgot that you were bringing Hamish today."

"No big deal, Greg," John replied happily, placing his bag on the floor.

"I'm not surpised," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he set both Hamish and the bag on the floor.

"Unk Les'de!" Hamish cried upon seeing the Detective Inspector. He rushed forward, wrapping his arms around one of Greg's legs.

"Hey! Look how well you're walking, little man!" he praised, bending down to pat the little boy on his head.

"Uncle Lestrade," Sherlock scoffed, giving a little roll of his eyes.

"Sherlock," John warned, shooting him a look.

The detective smirked. "Come on, then, Hamish," he said happily, reaching his hand out towards the little boy.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled happily, unwrapping his arms from around Lestrade's leg.

Now completely at peace, he hurried back over to Sherlock, taking ahold of the detective's hand. "'Etter, Daddy," he sighed contently, leaning his head against Sherlock's leg.

"Good," the detective said, smiling down at Hamish. He turned his attention back to Lestrade. "So! Anything new?" he inquired excitedly.

"Well," Greg said, turning around towards his desk. He grabbed a folder and handed it to John so he would be up to date on the facts of the case. "We raked over the crime scene again like you said, and we found something. We're processing it right now. It was—"

"A blood sample found behind the couch, as I had originally suggested? Hardly surprising."

Both John and Lestrade chuckled to themselves.

"Right. And don't worry," he added hurriedly, "We've already had a sample sent to the lab so you can... Do whatever it is you do with those things."

"Excellent," the detective murmured. "And I don't suppose you managed to notice the muddy footprint just under the coffee table?"

Lestrade sighed deeply, and turned around to his desk, picking up the phone. "I'll get someone back over there."

"Yes. I need that, soon, Lestrade, so we can pinpoint where he might have been. In the meantime," he added, talking in a more childish voice as he looked down at Hamish, who had been observing quietly from his position against his father's leg. "We're going to go to the lab and examine some blood! Hmm? How does that sound?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, he's a child," John sighed incredulously, though, to be honest, he was not surprised.

"Obvious, John. And besides, he's my child. He'll get used to things like this; might as well start him early!"

"Right. Of course we must," the doctor finished sarcastically, though it went unnoticed by Sherlock as Sally Donovan had chosen that moment to walk into Lestrade's office.

"Well," she drawled, "decided to come back did you, freak? You left in quite a hurry last night, didn't you? Probably went home so quickly because you and John wanted to—"

Before she could continue, though, and before Sherlock could yell out a very well-thought-out retort, they was interrupted by the sound of a very loud gasping noise. Everyone's eyes in the room fell to Hamish, who was glaring up at Sally, his arms crossed across his chest.

"Up, Daddy," he said firmly. He continued to stare angrily at Donovan as Sherlock picked the little boy up, moving him close to his chest.

"Hamish?" he asked hesitantly.

"No, Daddy." He pointed at Sally, who was gaping at the little, who had called Sherlock "Daddy" not once, but twice.

Keeping his finger pointed at the Sergeant, Hamish continued. "Bad," he stated, still glaring. "Corner." Frowning deeply, he pointed to the corner of Lestrade's office. "An' think," he added with a firm nod of his head. When Sally remained frozen to the spot, still staring wide-eyed at the little boy in Sherlock's arms, Hamish raised his eyebrows, mimicking the look he'd seen his father give him on the few occasions he'd been disciplined. "Mean. Corner. Now," he said, trying to sound as menacing as possible.

The two continued to stare at each other, Sally gaping, Hamish glaring until both John and Lestrade burst out laughing.

"Ohhh that was great!" John laughed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.

"You heard him Donovan. Corner. Now. Because you were mean. Go think about what you've done," Lestrade chortled, gasping for breath. "I'm not kidding!" he added when he saw Sally staring at him. "Go on, then! Corner."

"You're all freaks!" she fumed, turning on her heel and marching out of the room, muttering angrily to herself.

Sherlock, who'd previously been staring at his son with wide eyes, began to laugh out loud, pulling the now-very-confused Hamish to his chest in a tight hug.

"Oh, Hamish! You're just wonderful! Oh, that was brilliant! I knew it was a good idea bringing you," he praised, gently kissing the little boy all over his cheeks and head. "I couldn't have come up with a better retort! Just—Oh!—So marvelous, Hamish!"

"Daddy?" the little boy managed to ask quietly in between his father's many kisses. "Mon'ov'onan mean. Corner?" he said in confusion.

Sherlock stopped the stream of kisses so he could answer Hamish's question. "Yes, Hamish. She was being very mean. And you did a very good job. She deserves to sit in a corner and think about what she's done," he finished, giggling to himself.

"Oh... 'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish declared happily. He reached up, and with a large smile on his face, wrapped his chubby arms around Sherlock's neck to give him a tight hug.

"Simply brilliant," he whispered into the little boy's silky curls. "Come on, then! On that wonderful note, I say we go down to the lab to examine some blood samples, hmm? What do you say Hamish?"

"'Es, 'ease Daddy!"

"Excellent. Coming John?" he asked happily, still beaming.

The doctor, who was still giggling hysterically with Lestrade, tried to catch his breath. "I'll head over in a minute," he managed, which only launched both him and Greg into another fit of laughs.

Sherlock chuckled in response. "Right, then. We'll see you over there. Come on Hamish. Molly might be in today!"

"Aunt Molly?" he asked excitedly.

"Mmm-hmm."

Grinning, Sherlock placed Hamish on the floor, and waited patiently until the little boy had wrapped his small fingers around his thumb.

"See you in a few," he called back to John and Lestrade as he made his way out of Greg's office, and back outside to hail a cab. As the cab quickly made its way to St. Bart's, Hamish seemed even more amazed than he had on the way here. He pressed his face against the window, sighing in awe at the passing scenery.

Occasionally, smiling lovingly at the little boy, Sherlock would explain something about a passing building, which only added to Hamish's awe.

Eventually, Hamish decided he'd had enough of walking. "Daddy? Up 'ease? Tired."

"Of course. We're almost there. Up we go," he said, lifting the little boy up.

"Ta, Daddy," Hamish said, absentmindedly playing with soft fabric of Sherlock's coat between his fingers.

"You're very welcome, Hamish."

The detective continued towards the lab, resuming his usual pace. He talked absentmindedly to Hamish as he walked, going over the details of the case, though he made sure to leave out all of the gory details.

"So it must mean that he was in London at precisely 7:15 on the night of the murder, right?" he asked rhetorically as he pushed open the doors to the lab. "Which means there must—" He stopped immediately upon seeing Molly, sitting on the ground, one hand on her forehead, other wrapped tightly around her stomach, sobbing hysterically.

"Molly?" he cried, rushing forward.

Ever since Reichenbach and everything Molly had done for him—everything she had sacrificed for him—the relationship between the two had grown significantly stronger. Sherlock had vowed to always be there for her if she ever needed anything and had to admit that he actually cared for her.

Upon seeing the detective rushing towards her, Molly stood up, hurriedly trying to brush away the tears from her face.

"Molly, what's wrong? Are you all right? Is everything okay with the baby?" he asked worriedly, hovering by her small form.

"No, no, Sherlock, really I'm fine. It's just—Well—Umm—It's, it's Daniel. He... Um... He's left—Just up and decided he didn't want any part of this anymore," she sniffled, nodding towards her stomach. No longer able to keep her emotions in check, though, she began to sob again, holding her head in her hands.

"Molly... I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured quietly. Keeping Hamish on his hip, he reached forward, placing his free hand on Molly's back. He was still very awkward when it came to comforting anyone besides Hamish. "Is there anything I can do?"

"What the hell is happening?" came a worried cry from the doorway. Both Sherlock and Molly turned to see John standing at the entrance to the lab, two large bags in his hands, and a worried look on his face. He dropped the bags and hurried over.

"Molly? What's wrong?"

When Molly only continued to cry harder, Sherlock turned to John and quickly summarized, "Molly's boyfriend, Daniel, has just decided that he no longer wants anything to with her pregnancy, so he's up and left, and, clearly, Molly is very distressed by it."

John did a double-take. "Wait. Sorry. What? Did you just say pregn—Molly, you're pregnant?" he asked incredulously.

Molly couldn't help but cough out a laugh. She turned to John with tears still streaming down her cheeks, though she was smiling.

"Yes," she answered quietly, wiping the back of her hand across her cheeks. "I told Sherlock... He didn't, tell you, did he?" she chuckled.

"Wha—How far along are you Molly?"

"Five months," Sherlock answered quickly.

John glared at him. "And how long have you known?" he asked Sherlock.

"Four months, two days and eight hours," the detective answered plainly.

"What!" John fumed, glowering at Sherlock. "You've known for that long, and you never told me!"

"My apologizes but—"

"Aunt Molly?" Hamish whispered quietly, concern written all over his small features. Everyone stopped talking. Sniffling, and hurriedly wiping her face, Molly turned her attention to Hamish.

"Yes, Hamish?" she asked gently, with a shaky voice.

The little boy gestured to Sherlock, who obliged by leaning forward, moving Hamish closer to Molly.

A sad look on his face, the little boy reached up, and gently brushed his fingers across Molly's cheeks, and then once across her forehead, moving some of her hair off of her forehead.

He leaned back, recoiling his hand from her face. "'Etter, Aunt Molly," he said, giving a reassuring nod.

Molly choked back a happy sob. "Thank you so much, Hamish," she sniffled. "May I?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied hastily, passing Hamish over to Molly. Smiling sadly, she hugged the little boy close, tucking his head under her chin. "Thank you, Hamish," she repeated, whispering into the little boy's hair.

"'Es, Molly," Hamish replied quietly, talking into Molly's neck.

Sniffling again, she pressed a quick kiss to Hamish's temple, before passing him back to Sherlock.

"Oh," she sighed, clearing her throat quietly. "Okay. I'm okay... We're okay." She gave a slight nod of her head, and, wiping away the last of her tears, turned back to Sherlock and John.

"Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much." She hurried forward, wrapping her arms around all three of them. "Sorry for all the crazy emotions. Hormones, you know," she chuckled, backing away.

"I just—I mean I can't believe you're five months pregnant and I'm just finding out about it now," John said, shooting a sideways glare to Sherlock.

"Sorry," he shrugged, winking at Hamish as he did so.

Molly laughed. "Oh it's okay," she said, placing her hand on John's arm and giving a reassuring squeeze.

"Umm... Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, using one finger to gently prod Sherlock's neck.

"Yes, Hamish?"

The little boy thought for a moment, before gesturing for Sherlock to lean down. Lips turning up at the corners, the detective bent down, allowing Hamish to whisper into his ear.

"Aunt Molly an' baby? What?" he whispered, glancing towards Molly's stomach.

"Oh! Right! Yes, Hamish. Molly has a baby in her tummy right now," he said excitedly, grinning at the way the little boy turned back to Molly, his mouth hanging open, and his eyes wide with sheer wonder.

"Molly mummy?" he cried, glancing excitedly at Sherlock.

"Yes, Hamish. Very good! Aunt Molly is going to be a mummy very soon. In fact," he added, bending down to whisper in his son's ear. "I'll bet if you ask very, very nicely, she'll even let you feel her tummy, and you can feel the baby kicking."

"Wow! Real Daddy?" he asked in an amazed voice.

"Really," Sherlock said earnestly, smiling lovingly as Hamish gasped out loud.

"Aunt Molly? Hame tummy?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, yes of course you can, Hamish. Here. Give me your hands." Smiling sweetly as she saw Hamish's eyes widen in anticipation, Molly lifted up her shirt, holding both of the little boy's small hands in her own.

"Okay... Here. And here," she said, placing Hamish's hands on either side of her stomach.

The three shared a smile as Hamish stared intently at Molly's stomach, now completely serious at the prospect of actually feeling a baby.

Returning her gaze back to Hamish, Molly placed both of her hands over Hamish's tiny ones.

The room was silent as the little boy stared excitedly at Molly's stomach, practically frozen in Sherlock's arms.

Suddenly, Hamish gasped out loud. He looked up into Molly's eyes and then quickly back towards her stomach.

"Daddy!" cried, looking back to stare at Sherlock, a wide grin on his face, amazement accentuation his sweet features.

Practically bouncing with excitement in his father's arms, Hamish grabbed one of Sherlock's hands and began tugging on his fingers. "Come, Daddy."

"What? Oh. No, Hamish. It's okay. I don't need to feel, really—" But the little boy had already started to drag his hand towards Molly's stomach.

"'Ease Daddy?" he whispered excitedly.

Sherlock stared at the little boy, willing himself to just say no. But upon seeing the expectant look on his small face, the detective sighed, smiling lovingly at his son.

"Fine," he murmured quietly. "Molly?" He glanced at her for reassurance.

"Of course," she replied quietly, smiling fondly at father and son.

"Here, Daddy," Hamish told the detective excitedly, pressing his chubby hand against Molly's stomach. Giving the little boy a quick smile, Sherlock hesitantly placed his hand over Hamish's, now very uncomfortable from touching Molly's pregnant belly.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish reassured quietly, giving the detective a small smile. "'Kay... Shh."

The room went silent again. Sherlock waited awkwardly, desperately wanting to removed his hand, but remaining perfectly still for the sake of Hamish.

And then he felt it. Almost like a fluttering underneath his palm. And then like a pop, or a kick.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried triumphantly. Only making Molly laugh more, he leaned forward, pressing his ear just above her bellybutton.

"Wow," Sherlock sighed in bewilderment. "That was amazing," he murmured, smiling fondly at Hamish, whose mouth was hanging open as he listened intently to Molly's stomach.

"Aunt Molly mummy!" the little boy exclaimed happily, withdrawing both his hands and his head from her stomach. He turned around, wrapping his arms around the detective in a tight hug.

"Wow, Daddy," he murmured excitedly.

"Yes, I know, Hamish," Sherlock replied quietly, whispering into his son's hair. "That was amazing, wasn't it?"

"'Es, Daddy!" he replied enthusiastically, nodding up and down against Sherlock's chest. "Again?" he asked hopefully.

"As long as Aunt Molly is okay with it," the detective smiled, brushing away some of the little boy's curls from his forehead.

"Oh, of course," Molly replied happily. "Here. I can take him while you two... Do your thing."

Chuckling, Sherlock passed Hamish back over to Molly. Instantly, the little boy pressed his hands to her stomach, going completely silent as he waited to feel the baby move again.

Both smiling fondly at the little boy, John and Sherlock turned back towards the microscopes.

Bouncing Hamish in her arms, Molly began to pace around the lab, talking to the little boy.

 

 

"Come on, Hamish!" Sherlock called excitedly several hours later, getting up from where he was seated at a microscope. "We've got what we came for! Finally."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish said sadly, turning to Molly who was seated on the floor next to him. "Bye, Aunt Molly." Smiling at her, he scooted forward and wrapped his arms around her neck. He gave her cheek a quick kiss, and then bent down and placed his hands on her stomach. "Bye, bye, 'aby," he whispered quietly, pressing another tender kiss to her belly.

"Bye, Hamish. Thank you for everything. You're simply wonderful," she murmured, wrapping her arms around the little boy to give him a hug.

John and Sherlock stood, staring fondly at the little boy. The doctor hurried forward to help Molly up while Sherlock crouched down and began to put away the many toys and coloring utensils that were scattered across the floor.

"Bye, bye Molly an' baby," Hamish whispered again as Molly passed him to John. He gave a small little wave of his hand.

John smiled down at the little boy in his arms. "You really are wonderful, aren't you?" he chuckled, hugging the little boy close. He turned his attention back to Molly and rushed forward to give her a tight hug.

"I'm sorry to hear about everything. But, listen, if you need anything—ever, no matter the time of day—you give us a call, and we'll be right over to help, okay?" he said, running a soothing hand up and down her arm.

Eyes filling with tears, she reached forward, giving John another tight hug. "Thank you. Thank you, very much."

"'Course," John smiled. He turned his attention to Hamish. "Well! I say we head back to the Yard and let Daddy carry both the bags this time," he said smugly, not looking back at Sherlock who had already slung one bag over his shoulder.

"Yes, John," he sighed, standing up with the second bag in hand. "You two head over, I'll follow in a moment."

"Daddy?" Hamish asked, turning around in Sherlock's arms.

"Don't worry, Hamish. I'll be there in just a moment," the detective said reassuringly, giving the little boy a warm smile.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy."

"Good boy," John praised, turning to walk out the door.

"Bye, Molly!" he called again.

"Bye, bye 'aby!" Hamish shouted back just as the doors swung shut.

Sherlock chuckled, gazing fondly towards the doorway.

"Thank you," Molly whispered quietly, pulling the detective's attention away from the door.

"Oh. Well, yes of course Molly. It's not a problem."

She smiled, peering down at the floor as she paused for a moment. "You already knew what was happening as soon as you walked in, didn't you?" she asked fondly, giving the detective a knowing look.

"I—Well—Yes. Yes I'm afraid I did. I'm sorry I can't—"

"Thank you so much, Sherlock," Molly cried, wrapping her arms around the detective. She sniffled, wiping away her happy tears. "And now I'm crying again," she chuckled, pulling away from Sherlock.

"Right. Well, I'd best be off. Hamish is probably going to be becoming rather cranky here soon, and uh... Well let's just say I'd hate to leave John alone at the Yard if and when that happens," he said, giving Molly a reassuring smile. He bent down, and picked up both of the bags, slinging one over his shoulder.

"Bye, Molly," he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"See you Sherlock," Molly giggled back, placing one hand over her stomach.

Smiling at her, Sherlock waved one last goodbye before hurrying out of the room.

After excitedly telling Lestrade of his findings (where the kidnapper would have been at precisely 7:15 on the day of the murder) Sherlock hurried back home, hoping to get Hamish to bed early tonight, seeing as he'd not been able to take a nap at all today and was becoming rather restless.

"Daddy, tired," the little moaned, leaning back against Sherlock's stomach in the cab, too tired to peer out the window at the lights, now that it was dark out.

"I know you are," Sherlock said, slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth across the little boy's stomach. He bent down to press a light kiss to Hamish's auburn hair. "And you did a wonderful job today. I'm very proud of you, Hamish," he praised happily, tightening his grip around his son's middle.

"Ta, Daddy," the little boy replied tiredly, turning around so he could lean against Sherlock. Placing one hand under his head, he snuggled closer, finding a comfortable position before closing his eyes tiredly.

John chuckled, and then turned his attention to Sherlock. "Four months... And you knew for four months," he sighed incredulously, giving a slight roll of his eyes.

"John," Sherlock whined, returning the look with his own royal eye roll. "I'm sorry! It just sort of slipped my mind."

"Yeah, yeah I know," John chuckled, trying to hide his smile by gazing out the window.

The two sat in comfortable silence all the way home, with Hamish snoozing soundly against Sherlock's stomach, practically curled up into a little ball.

"No, no, it's okay, I'll get both the bags. You take him up and get him into bed," John whispered upon seeing how his flat mate was having trouble holding the sleeping Hamish and grabbing a bag.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered back thankfully, stepping out of the cab.

He hurried inside, careful to leave the door open so John could get through more easily.

"Ohh," he sighed gently as he walked into his room. "Shh, there we go," he said, lying the still-sleeping boy down so he could change his nappy. "Sorry, Hamish," he apologized quietly as the little boy awoke, groaning as the detective continued to change his nappy.

"Daddy," he whined, halfheartedly trying to push Sherlock's hands away.

Chuckling at his son, Sherlock finished the nappy, deciding to leave Hamish in just his nappy tonight.

He hugged the little boy close, bouncing gently as he walked over to the bed.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, gently tapping Sherlock's chest as he did so.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock asked gently.

"Um... Why Mon'ov'on... On... Onan," he said slowly, trying pronounce Donovan's last name.

"Donovan," Sherlock smiled, helping the little boy.

"'Es. Why said Daddy freak? What freak?"

"Oh," Sherlock sighed sadly. He began to pace around the room, absentmindedly puling Hamish closer. "Well... I'm afraid that as you get older, you're going to find out that I'm a little different than most people," Sherlock began quietly, whispering to Hamish who, though tired, was clinging on to his father's every word.

Smiling sadly at his son, Sherlock began to rub his hand up and down the little boy's back as he continued, "Well, sometimes, there are mean people, people like Donovan, who believe that because you're different, you're somehow bad. And 'freak' is a very mean word to call someone when they're different... It's very mean."

"Make Daddy sad?" Hamish asked worriedly.

"Umm... No. Not anymore," Sherlock said gently, brushing his fingers across Hamish's smooth cheek.

"Hame no 'ink Daddy freak," the little boy whispered, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest. "Hame 'ove Daddy. No freak. 'Ove."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh sadly, feeling an overwhelming sense of love for this little boy.

"Thank you, Hamish. That means more to me than you can possibly know," he murmured, bending down rest his head on top of Hamish's silky hair.

"No Daddy be sad. Hame 'ove... No sad?"

Feeling that familiar warmth flood his entire body, Sherlock laid down on the bed, pulling Hamish close to his face.

"No," he whispered. "I'm not sad. I'm actually... So incredibly happy, Hamish. Thank you, so very much. I love you, Hamish." He leaned forward, tenderly kissing Hamish's nose.

"Mmm," the little boy hummed, closing his eyes. "Hame nigh night' here?" he asked tiredly, already crawling off of Sherlock's chest.

"Of course you can, Hamish," Sherlock whispered happily. He quickly pulled off his jacket, tossing it aside, and then rolled over, pausing to stare lovingly at Hamish's small form. "Mmm," the little boy sighed happily, curling into a ball as he waited for his father.

Tenderly, Sherlock crawled back into the bed, lying on his side, and gently pulled Hamish close to his torso.

"Mmm... No Daddy freak," the little boy mumbled to himself as his eyes began to slide shut. "'Ove Daddy," he whispered, kissing the closest thing he could find, which happened to be Sherlock's arm.

The detective chuckled, a mix of sadness, happiness, but mostly an overwhelming sense of love causing his eyes to burn.

"Nigh, nigh, Daddy," Hamish barely managed before he quickly fell asleep, wrapped in his father's loving embrace.

"Good night, Hamish. Thank you." Overcome with emotion, he bent down, pressing his lips to the top of Hamish's hair. "I love you."

That night, Sherlock did not sleep. The words, "No Daddy freak," kept playing over and over in his mind, and each time, he thought he felt a little bit more love for the sleeping boy wrapped tightly in his arms.


	18. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So I finally proofread this thing. So sorry for all the mistakes! Hope it's better now! =) Also, I was kind of unsure about the beginning with the reading and everything, so some feedback about that would be awesome. ;) Thanks, guys! Have a great rest of your week! =)

hapter Eighteen: Scars

" 'Will you help me make the flour?' asked Little Red Hen."

"No," whispered Hamish, shaking his head solemnly as Sherlock turned the page of the book.

" 'Mmm... No,' said the rat, the cat, and the dog... 'Then I will make it all by myself,' said Little Red Hen."

"An' she did," Hamish murmured.

"And she did," Sherlock repeated slowly, gazing down at the little boy.

Hamish, who was tightly snuggled in between Sherlock's arm, his head resting on the detective's chest, turned around when his father stopped reading.

"Daddy," he giggled, tugging on the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt.

"What? Oh no. I was doing it again, wasn't I?" the detective said, smiling down at his son.

Hamish giggled. "'Es, Daddy."

Sherlock chuckled. "Sorry, love. Here. How about we take a quick bath, and then finish the book before going to sleep, hmm?"

"Yay, Daddy! Bath!"

Hamish was practically vibrating with excitement. Bathtime was definitely his favorite nighttime activity. He crawled onto Sherlock's stomach, trying to get his father to move more quickly.

"Come, Daddy!"

"All right, all right," Sherlock chuckled, placing Hamish on the ground. He smiled as the little boy toddled over to the bathroom door, bouncing up and down on his chubby legs as he waited for Sherlock to come and open the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, don't worry," the detective chuckled, reaching over and opening the door.

"Ta, Daddy!" Hamish called cheerfully, running into the bathroom. As Sherlock got up off the bed, the little boy opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out his favorite bath toy, a large plastic toy boat. Toy in hand, he hurried over to the bathtub, moving his arms up and down as Sherlock started the water running.

"In 'ease, Daddy?"

"I'm getting there," Sherlock chuckled, bending down to pull off the little boy's shirt. Trying to maneuver around Hamish's excited bouncing, he managed to remove Hamish's trousers and nappy.

"There you go," he sighed dramatically, placing the little boy in the tub.

Hamish squealed happily as the tub continued to fill up, kicking his feet up and down, and splashing water out of the tub.

"Hamish!" Sherlock cried, quickly stepping out of the way of the water, which only caused the little boy to laugh more.

Seeing that there would probably be a lot of splashing tonight, he quickly pulled off his button up, tossing it into the other room, and then knelt down by the tub, reaching one hand in to playfully ruffle Hamish's hair.

"Let's keep the splashing to a minimum tonight, okay?" he chuckled, turning the water off.

"'Kay Daddy. Hame try."

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed happily. He reached behind him, opening the cabinet to grab some soap, a washcloth, and a small plastic cup.

"Okay, Hamish. Time to wash your hair."

"Mmm," the little boy grumbled, releasing his toy boat and letting it float in the water. He reached both of his hands out, cupping them to make a sort of cup. Smiling a half-smile, Sherlock dumped a tiny bit of soap into the little boy's hands, knowing he liked to 'wash' his own hair.

Hamish muttered unintelligibly to himself as he threw his arms up, pressing the small amount of soap in his hands to the top of his head.

"Good, Daddy," he said with a nod of his head. He tried to hurry away towards the end of the tub, where the boat was now floating.

"Nope!" Sherlock laughed, reaching towards Hamish. In one swift, though careful, movement, he pulled the little boy back towards the other end of the tub. "Not quite," he said, smiling to himself.

Keeping one hand around Hamish's middle, he reached for the bottle of soap, pouring a small amount of the sweet-smelling liquid onto the little boy's wet curls. Letting go of his son's stomach, Sherlock began to gently wash Hamish's silky hair, running his fingers over the little boy's scalp, tickling him as he did so.

"Mmm," Hamish mumbled, desperately trying to pout, rather than laugh. Giving up, he giggled loudly, trying to shove Sherlock's hands away. "Daddy!" he laughed, wrapping both of his chubby hands around one of the detective's wrists.

Grinning, Sherlock quickly finished washing Hamish's hair and body, and then allowed the little boy to make him something (supposedly a dog) out of bubbles.

"Wow, Hamish. That's beautiful, thank you!" he praised, smiling at the proud look on Hamish's face. "Here you go," he murmured, passing the small mass of bubbles back to Hamish, who then delicately placed it at the end of the tub.

"A few more minutes, then it's time to get out, okay?"

"Mmmkay, Daddy," Hamish replied distractedly, too busy playing with the bubbles to listen to Sherlock.

The detective turned his attention back to Hamish, grinning warmly as the little boy began to murmur to himself, running his chubby fingers through the water. A wide grin spread across his small face as he scooped up a small pile of the bubbles, thrusting his arms into the air. Then, now with a very concentrated look on his face, he stuck out his bottom lip, and threw his arms back down, splashing them against the water. The smile returned to his face, and he squealed happily, running his chubby fingers through the water.

"Mmm," he murmured happily to himself, pressing the palms of his hands together.

Sherlock watched the little boy with a serious face, feeling that familiar warmth spread through his veins.

"Come on, Hamish," he murmured, moving forward. "Time to dry off."

The little boy pulled his attention away from his hands to gaze at Sherlock. "Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," he said sadly, using the side of the tub to pull himself up into a standing position.

Sherlock waited patiently while the water drained from the tub. He grabbed the plastic cup, turning around towards the sink to fill it with warm water.

Cup in hand, he turned back to Hamish, who was still standing, gripping tightly onto the side of the tub.

"Okay. Time for the rinse. Ready?"

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy replied, giving a small nod of his head before squeezing his eyes shut in preparation.

Smiling at his son, Sherlock squatted down and placed his free hand just above Hamish's eyes, creating a sort of wall so Hamish wouldn't accidently inhale any of the water or get it in his eyes.

"Ready? One, two, three." The detective quickly dumped the water over Hamish's head, rinsing away the last of the suds.

"All done," he said happily, brushing some of Hamish's wet hair away from his eyes.

"'Es," the little boy answered, gripping onto the side of the tub as he shivered.

"I'll get a towel." Sherlock quickly turned around, dropping the cup in he tub, and then made to grab a towel for the cold little boy. He spun around on his heel, though, upon hearing a loud gasp from Hamish.

Instinctively, he thrust his arms out, thinking the little boy had slipped and fallen.

"Oh," he sighed in relief when he saw Hamish still standing, perfectly fine. The detective's brows pulled together, though, upon seeing the worried look on his son's face.

"Hamish?" he asked, concerned. Bending down he quickly scooped up the little boy and pulled him close to his bare chest, not caring about whether or not he got wet.

"Hamish, please. Tell me what's wrong? Are you hurt?" he asked frantically.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed in awe, tears filling his eyes.

"What—"

"Daddy!" Hamish quickly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing his face into the space at the base of his neck.

"Hamish, I don't understand. What's wrong?" The detective knew that Hamish had a tendency to become very moody at night, and he hoped the little boy was just suffering from tiredness or anger at having been taken out of the bath.

"'Ook, Daddy." Teary-eyed, Hamish looked up, pointing at the mirror behind Sherlock. He let go of the detective's neck with one arm and placed his chubby hand just above Sherlock's shoulder blade.

"Oh, Daddy," he sighed sadly, staring at the mirror as a single tear fell from his eyes.

Not understanding, Sherlock quickly turned his head around to see what Hamish had told him to look at.

"Oh," he sighed, almost in relief, upon seeing Hamish's small hand covering a large scar on his back.

"Ouch, Daddy," Hamish cried, curling his hand into a fist as he tucked his head back into the detective's neck.

"Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, reaching down for the towel he had dropped. "It's okay. It's just a scar; it doesn't hurt anymore. There's no need to cry," he whispered, wrapping the towel around the little boy's small body.

"No, Daddy," Hamish cried, clinging to his father. "'Ook." Sniffling, he pointed to his own collarbone with a shaking finger and peered up at the detective with watery eyes.

Squinting at the spot where Hamish had pointed, Sherlock left the bathroom and sat down on the bed. He looked carefully at his son's collarbone. His breath suddenly caught in his throat as his eyes fell upon a very tiny scar spreading across Hamish's clavicle.

"Hamish," he breathed, trying desperately to catch the breath that had suddenly escaped him. He couldn't believe he had never noticed the scar before.

"Ouch, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, staring sadly up at Sherlock. "Hame ouch an' Daddy."

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, an unexplainable wave of sadness crashing over him. "You've been hurt like me, haven't you… Hamish can you tell me how you got that?" Sherlock murmured quietly. Gently, he moved the little boy to his lap, splaying one of his large hands across his son's back to keep him from falling backward.

Sniffling, Hamish dropped his own small hand, letting it rest on the detective's leg. "No, Daddy," he said quietly, closing his eyes. "Bad." Tears brimming in his eyes again, he looked back up at his father.

"Bad," the detective echoed quietly. Brows drawn together, he slowly moved his hand towards his son's neck. Still supporting the little boy with his other hand, he quickly brushed his thumb over the tiny scar, struggling to contain the strange sense of guilt he felt. He stared at the small white slash that traveled over his son's otherwise smooth skin.

Gently, almost as if he was trying not to hurt the little boy, Sherlock let is finger slide across Hamish's pale skin again. "Hamish," he whispered sadly, staring into the watery eyes of his son.

"Ouch, Daddy..." Hamish murmured back, his mouth pulling down into a sad frown another wave of tears threatened to fall. "Da'ey," he cried, leaning forward, sniffling as he let his head gently bump against his father's stomach.

"I'm here," Sherlock murmured, staring sadly down at Hamish as he started to rub soothing circles up and down his son's bare back. As he felt the little boy start to cry against him, he felt an unimaginable anger burning his stomach; now there was a physical reminder of the past Hamish had experienced, something they were both hoping to forget. But now this scar, this incredibly tiny line of discoloration on his son's collar, would forever be a constant reminder of everything the little boy had suffered through.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt an overwhelming burning sensation; he wanted to hurt the people who had abused the beautiful baby in his arms; hurt the person who had given Hamish the scar on his neck.

"Daddy get ouch?" Hamish whispered quietly against Sherlock's stomach, pulling the detective away from his thoughts. "'Ook?" A sad look still on his face, he scooted backward, pulling his head as he haphazardly placed one of his chubby hands on Sherlock's chest, the other on his arm.

Smiling sadly, Sherlock picked the little boy up, keeping him wrapped in the towel, and placed him on the other side of the bed. Then, keeping a watchful eye on Hamish, he laid down on his stomach. "Over here, Hamish." Offering the little boy his hand, he simultaneously scooted to the middle of the bed and guided Hamish onto his back. "Right here," he murmured, pointing to his own, much larger scar.

"Oh, Daddy," Hamish sighed sadly. He leaned forward, moving one of his chubby hands towards the detective's back. "Ouch, Daddy," he murmured, pressing his small hand over the scar. Babbling unintelligibly to himself, he began to trace the almost-white skin with one of his chubby fingers. His small features pulled together in concentration as his finger stopped moving. Sticking his lip out, he pressed both of his small hands just behind Sherlock's shoulder blade, trying to cover the scar.

"What, Daddy?" he asked quietly, crawling off his father's back.

"How did I get the scar?" Sherlock questioned, sitting back up. He quickly slid off the bed, and grabbed a nappy for Hamish before sitting back down on the bed.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy answered, giving a tired nod of his head. Sherlock quickly discarded the wet towel and put on Hamish's nappy. He then pulled the little boy into his arms, and set him down in his lap.

"Well, Hamish, you see—" The detective stopped abruptly. "Oh... Um... When I was little, Uncle Mycroft and I were playing together, and I fell down and ended up cutting my back on some sharp rocks. That's all," he murmured quietly, brushing away some of Hamish's still-wet hair.

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief. Tiredly, he leaned his head against Sherlock's stomach, and peered up at the detective, a content smile now gracing his lips. "So Daddy no ouch?" he asked hopefully, absentmindedly wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's thumb.

"Yes, Hamish. There's no ouch. I promise."

Hamish closed his eyes, leaning his small body further into Sherlock's torso. "Good. Daddy 'etter."

Sherlock smiled sadly, squeezing his eyes shut as painful images began to flash across his memory. Night. Dark. Alcohol. Glass... Broken... Scar...

"Daddy?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, and peered down at Hamish, his mouth hanging open slightly as he quickly chased the memory away.

"Yes, Hamish?" he whispered quietly.

"Umm..." the little boy began slowly, now engrossed in playing with his father's fingers. Sherlock gazed lovingly at the little boy, focusing on his sweet features as he felt the calming sensation of Hamish's chubby fingers running across his own.

Face scrunched up in concentration, Hamish focused all of his attention of his father's hand. "Uh," he grunted quietly, moving Sherlock's hand onto his own lap. Delicately, he turned the detective's hand until it was facing palm up.

"Mmm," he murmured, grabbing two of Sherlock's fingers in his hands. "Ddd... Hmm," he babbled, lifting his father's hand into the air so as to examine it. He quickly moved Sherlock's large hand back into his lap, and pressed the palm of his own small hand against the palm of his father's.

Though it went unnoticed by Hamish, Sherlock leaned down, and gently kissed the little boy on side of his forehead. Using his free hand, he pulled Hamish closer to his chest, smiling fondly as he felt the little boy's hand curl and uncurl against his palm.

"Bbbmmm." Frowning slightly, Hamish hastily pressed both of his hands against Sherlock's palm, trying to spread them apart. He grunted unhappily and began to push harder against his father's hand.

"Hamish," Sherlock chuckled happily, pushing the thought of the scar away. He wrapped his slender fingers around both of Hamish's small hands, and moved them to his mouth, gently giving each one a light kiss. "It's okay," he reassured happily, keeping his son's chubby hands wrapped in his own.

"But, Daddy—" Hamish argued, scrunching his face together.

"Yes, I know," the detective chuckled. "Your hands are supposed to be small. Besides," he added, upon seeing the frown on his son's face, "I think you're beautiful just the way you are." He smiled reassuringly and began to play with some of the little boy's curls.

"Daddy? What b... batfml?" he asked confusedly.

"Beautiful," Sherlock corrected happily. "And beautiful is just another word for pretty, it just has a deeper meaning."

"Oh," Hamish replied quietly, trying to understand. "Daddy 'ink Hame bat'm'ful?"

Sherlock smiled fondly, and nodded. "Yes. I think you're beautiful."

The little boy grinned tiredly, and attempted to stand up in his father's lap.

"What is it, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, helping the little boy to stand up and keeping a firm hand on his bare back to keep him steady.

"Hame 'ink Daddy bat'm'ful," he stated happily.

Sherlock smiled warmly. "You think I'm beautiful, hmm? Well, thank you, Hamish," he chuckled contently.

"'Es, Daddy. 'Ook." Gazing at his father, Hamish placed both of his hands on either side of the detective's cheeks, letting them resting in the hollow. "Bat'mmm'ul," he stated firmly. He then tenderly placed both of his hands over Sherlock's eyelids. The detective closed his eyes, smiling as he heard Hamish repeat, "Bat'um'ful."

Keeping his eyes closed, he listened as his son gently touched his hair—"bat'm'ful"—and the gap at the base of his neck—"bat'ma'ful"—and then lastly, each of his hands—"bat'm'ful..."

He opened his eyes and grinned tenderly at his son. "Hame 'ink Daddy bat'um'ful," the little boy smiled. "Umm, Daddy? Hame nigh' night at Daddy?" he added quietly, letting one small hand rest on the detective's bare shoulder.

"You want to sleep with me tonight?" Sherlock asked warmly, already pulling the little boy onto his chest.

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Can?"

"Of course you can." He leaned down, gently kissing the little boy on the cheek as he felt Hamish yawn against his shoulder.

"Mmm. Ta, Daddy. Nigh' night." Sighing contently against his father's neck, Hamish snuggled into Sherlock's embrace, closing his eyes as he yawned again, the sound making the corner of his father's lips twitch upwards in a smile.

"Nigh' night, Hamish." Sherlock slowly stood up off the bed and pulled on a t-shirt, trying not to jostle the almost-asleep child on his chest.

"We're going to go out and sit in the sitting room with John, okay?"

"Mmkay, Da'ey," Hamish whispered as his eyes fluttered closed.

"Good," Sherlock murmured, placing one of his hands on the back of the little boy's head. He exited the room and slowly sat down in his chair, across from John, who was reading a book in his own chair.

"Oh. Hey," John whispered quietly, gazing at his two flat mates. "Didn't want to sleep alone, tonight, hmm?" he asked, giving Sherlock a small smile.

"No," the detective began quietly, staring absentmindedly at the floor. "He uh—" Sherlock quietly cleared his throat. "Saw my scar for the first time. He was quite shaken by it, seeing as he has one of his own." The detective looked back at his friend, a hint of pain in his eyes.

"From the orphanage?" John asked, concerned. He saw Sherlock give a terse nod of his head, and knew that this was obviously a sore subject for his friend. "Right." He paused, putting his book in his lap. "Did you tell him?" he asked quietly, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock.

The detective shook his head as he gazed down at Hamish nestled firmly against his chest. "No," he murmured. "He's already experienced enough pain in his life. I don't need to add to it by teaching him that mother's and father's can hurt their babies, too. For now, he just needs to know that he has a family who loves him. For now, that's enough."

John nodded solemnly, and peered at the sleeping little boy. "Well, I certainly can't disagree with that," he murmured.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered back. "Besides, he'd become even more distressed if he knew what happened to him was also done to me by my own father. I'll spare him from that for as long as possible."

"Right. Poor thing."

Sherlock nodded again. Smiling sadly at his son, he bent down, and tenderly pressed his lips to the small scar on Hamish's collarbone, almost as if he was hoping he could wash away the small slash, and therefore erase the pain of his son's past.

John smiled at his friend, still not completely used to this very different side of Sherlock, which was clearly reserved for only Hamish. "'Night, you two," he whispered, smiling, and leaving his book on the arm of his chair.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock paused, squinting at the doctor. A smug look on his face, he gazed at his flat mate. "And I see congratulations are in order. Best of luck for tomorrow. It's about time. I've been waiting for you to get the courage to ask her. You have nothing to worry about; she's already planning on saying yes."

John rolled his eyes, smiling to himself. "Thanks, Sherlock," he chuckled happily, gazing back at the detective with a small smile. "How long have you known?"

Sherlock smiled slyly. "Long before you did, John," he stated smugly.

John laughed. "Right." Shaking his head, he hurried up the stairs, smiling to himself.

Still smirking, Sherlock turned is attention back to the sleeping little boy on his chest. He listened in the dark as Hamish began to talk to himself in his sleep, making quiet gurgling noises.

Smiling, Sherlock pressed another gentle kiss to his son's collarbone. "Goodnight, Hamish."


	19. A Proposal

At some point during the night, Hamish decided he no longer had an interest in sleeping. He tiredly opened his eyes, and shoved his face against Sherlock's chest. "Ahh," he yawned, moaning softly against the detective's shirt.

Scrunching his eyes shut, and shaking his head a little, Hamish squirmed in Sherlock's tight embrace, trying to free his arms. "Daddy?" he grunted tiredly.

Usually, it was a rarity for Sherlock to sleep at all, so when he actually did rest, it was usually very difficult to wake him up.

"Uh," Hamish huffed. He stared up at the detective with a careful gaze.

Sherlock's head was resting on the back of his chair, a peaceful look on his face.

"Da'ey 'ease up." Hamish squirmed again, this time freeing one of his hands from his father's tight hold around him. Tentatively, he reached up, and poked Sherlock's face with one of his chubby fingers. "Daddy," he whispered loudly, turning his head towards John's room, as if he were afraid he would wake the doctor up. "Daddy. Hame up… 'Ease?" Sherlock sighed in his sleep, the noise rumbling and low. Hamish giggled. "Daddy. Up 'ease." He prodded at the detective's face once again.

"Hamish?" Sherlock murmured groggily, his eyes fluttering open. He moaned quietly as he looked down to see a very wide-awake Hamish peering up at him with expectant eyes.

"Morn', Daddy. Hame up," the little boy whispered happily, freeing his other arm from Sherlock's grasp.

"Mmm. Yes. I can see that. May I ask why you're up?" the detective groaned, shifting in his chair, and closing his eyes once again. He pulled Hamish closer to his chest, pressing gently on Hamish's back with his hand.

"Hame up," the little boy stated plainly, giving the detective a look, which clearly said: I thought you were supposed to be smart.

Sherlock tiredly opened his eyes and chuckled as he saw the look his son was giving him.

"Right," he chuckled. "You're up because you're up. Well I suppose I can't argue with your logic." The detective paused, fixing Hamish with a tired stare. "Ugh, fine," he groaned, stand up. He sat the little boy on the ground.

"Yay, Daddy!" Hamish cheered, bouncing up and down on his chubby legs. He ran over to his toy bin, and turned back to his father, waiting anxiously for the detective to come and grab his desired toys. "Come, Daddy," he called.

Sherlock yawned widely, sighing as he heard Hamish beckoning for him. "I'm coming, I'm coming. Shh. You need to be quiet. You might wake John," he whispered, meandering over to the little boy.

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered.

Sherlock chuckled half-heartedly as he reached the toy bin. "Okay. Which ones would you like?"

"'Uzz an' draw!" Hamish squealed happily. "Oh!" he gasped, quickly covering his mouth with his chubby hands. "Soh, Daddy."

"It's okay, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, grabbing several puzzles and one of Hamish's coloring books, along with the box of crayons. "Okay," he sighed dramatically. "Come on, then. Let's go to my room."

"'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish whispered excitedly, toddling towards his father's bedroom.

Despite his tiredness, Sherlock smiled to himself, slowly following the little boy, toys in hand.

"Up we go," he groaned softly, lifting the little boy onto his bed. "Okay, Hamish. Which one first?" Sherlock yawned again as Hamish pointed to one of the puzzles. Smiling, the little boy crawled over towards Sherlock, who had lain down on his back, letting his head rest on the pillows.

"Puzzle. Right," he murmured quietly, rolling on his side as Hamish crawled next to his stomach, snuggling his small form tightly against the detective's stomach, already pulling one of the large pieces out of it's spot.

Trying to keep his eyes open, Sherlock twirled some of Hamish's hair between his fingers, smiling tiredly at the ticklish feeling of his son giggling against his stomach.

 

 

 

When John awoke, already feeling giddy at the prospect of what was awaiting for that day, he hurriedly got dressed (in what he knew was Mary's favorite jumper) and made his way down the stairs, grinning widely, with a small skip in his step. He hummed happily to himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the flat.

"Oh!" he said, upon seeing an exhausted looking Sherlock playing with a very happy Hamish on the floor.

"Morning, John," Sherlock said, gazing tiredly up at his flat mate from where he was sitting on the ground.

"Morning," John chuckled, walking further into the room. "How long have you been up?" he asked, chuckling as Sherlock groaned quietly.

"Seven hours, fourteen minutes and twenty-one seconds."

"Oh. Umm… How about I watch him for a little while and you go and take a rest, hmm?" he asked cheerily, bending down and taking ahold of Hamish's chubby hand to help him with a puzzle.

"Yes, please. Thank you, John," Sherlock sighed happily, pushing himself up off the ground.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked worriedly upon seeing his father stand up.

"It's okay, Hamish. I'm just going to take a quick nap. John's going to be with you." He gave the little boy a reassuring smile and quickly bent down to press a kiss to Hamish's forehead.

"Oh. 'Kay. Nigh' night, Daddy."

Sherlock smiled tiredly, and hurried away to his room, glad for the opportunity to rest.

John chuckled and turned his attention back to Hamish. "Didn't want to sleep, huh?" he asked, gazing around the flat at the many toys, puzzles, and coloring books strewn across the floor.

"No, John. Hame up," the little boy replied happily, smiling triumphantly as he dropped a puzzle piece into its proper place.

John chuckled, smiling sweetly at the little boy. "Well, I couldn't really sleep either; it's kind of a big day for me!" he said enthusiastically, grinning at Hamish.

"What, John?" the little boy asked curiously. Puzzle now forgotten, he quickly crawled over to John, pulling himself into the doctor's lap.

"Well," John began excitedly, placing one hand on the little boy's back, "I'm going to ask Mary to marry me today! And your father told me last night that she's going to say yes." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Which means she will. But you can't tell him that," he whispered loudly against Hamish's ear, causing the little boy to giggle.

"John," Hamish laughed, wrapping his arms around the doctor's arm.

John chuckled, hugging the little boy close. "Well! I say we get some breakfast, hmm? What would you like?" he asked cheerily, standing up with Hamish in his arms. "I can make anything."

"Umm… Cakes?" Hamish asked timidly, gripping tightly onto John's jumper with one hand.

"Pancakes? Sounds wonderful," John smiled.

 

 

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of a gentle knocking on his door.

"Mmm," he sighed gratefully, happy for the quick rest. "Yes, John?" he asked, keeping his eyes closed as he heard the doctor enter his room. The smell of pancakes flooded the area. Sherlock smiled. Hamish's favorite.

"I'm off," the doctor said happily, still terribly excited at the prospect of what he was about to do.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried happily, practically bouncing in John's arms.

"Also," John chuckled, setting the little boy on the ground so he could run over to Sherlock's bed, "this little one was asking for you."

The detective chuckled to himself as he felt Hamish tugging on his hand, which was resting over the side of the bed.

"Up 'ease, Daddy?"

Smiling, Sherlock rolled over on the bed, and pulled Hamish onto his chest. He sat up, giving John a warm smile. "Good luck," he said encouragingly. Smiling at Hamish, the detective stood up and gave the doctor an awkward clap on the shoulder. "You'll do great."

John beamed. "Thanks, Sherlock! Right. Well I'll see you two later. I'm off!" Practically bouncing with excitement, John gave Hamish a large kiss on his cheek, and grinned at his two flatmates before hurrying out the door.

Sherlock turned his attention to Hamish, who was staring after John with an incredibly confused look on his face.

Grinning fondly at the little boy, Sherlock brushed some of Hamish's curly hair away from his forehead. "Come on, then," he murmured happily. "Let's go get some fresh air."

"Hmm? Oh! Park?" Hamish asked hopefully, absentmindedly wrapping his chubby fingers around the collar of his father's shirt.

"Yes. We need to tire you out anyway," Sherlock chuckled, smiling at the excited look on his son's face. "Let's go get ready, then, hmm?

"'Es, Daddy!"

Gazing fondly at Hamish, Sherlock moved the little boy to his hip and walked out of the room.

 

 

After both father and son had managed to get properly dressed, Sherlock in his signature suit and Hamish in jeans and a cute plaid button up, the two made their way down the stairs, Sherlock pulling on both of their coats as they went.

"Where are you two off to?"

Sherlock turned around to see Mrs. Hudson walking out of her flat.

"Oh," he sighed, setting Hamish on the ground to properly straighten his coat. "We're just going to the park for a little fresh air." Wrapping his fingers around Hamish's chubby hand, Sherlock stood back up, giving Mrs. Hudson a warm smile.

"Ah. I see," the landlady replied, grinning knowingly at Sherlock.

"Should be back soon," the detective said, opening the door. He quickly gave the landlady a little peck on her cheek and a smile. "Say bye-bye, Hamish."

"B-bye Nana!" the little boy called happily, giving a tiny wave of his hand.

"Bye, darling," Mrs. Hudson replied, smiling sweetly at the little boy as she waved back.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock gave his landlady one last smile before hurrying out the door with Hamish.

"Right, then," he sighed, looking in the direction of park. He situated his scarf around his neck, and then gazed back down at Hamish, who had started to talk to himself, wobbling back and forth on his chubby legs. "Ready?" he asked quietly, giving his son's hand a gentle squeeze.

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish replied, pulling his attention away from his thoughts. He grinned widely up at Sherlock and started to toddle forward, gripping tightly onto his father's hand.

 

 

Eventually, Sherlock and Hamish reached the park.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried happily, pointing towards his favorite toy set.

"Go ahead," Sherlock chuckled, releasing his grasp on his son's chubby hand.

Squealing with happiness, Hamish rushed forward and, under the watchful eye of Sherlock, began to play.

Lips turned up in a fond half-smile, Sherlock meandered over to the bench closest to Hamish and sat down, ready to rush over towards the little boy at any moment if necessary. Several weeks ago, Hamish had decided he was apparently 'far too old' to have Sherlock play with him, so the detective had resorted to just watching the little boy with a careful eye.

Grinning at his son, Sherlock stood up, walking closer to Hamish, who had now taken quite an interest in playing with the woodchips that covered the ground.

"Hamish," the detective warned as he saw the little boy try and shove the wood in his mouth.

Pouting slightly, Hamish pulled the wooden chip away from his mouth and decided to just give it a thorough examination.

Sherlock smiled at the little boy, chuckling to himself. He took a step forward so as to watch him more closely.

"Ava! Don't run, you might fall! Just—agh. Okay. Right."

Sherlock turned to his left to see a small girl hurry past him, giggling happily. She tripped over her own feet, and began to fall forward.

"Oh! There you go," Sherlock said, instinctively bending down to catch the little girl.

"'Tank you," she said cheerfully, clearly unfazed by her almost-accident. She hurried away, running towards Hamish.

Sherlock chuckled at the little girl as a woman, obviously Ava's mother, hurried up next to him.

"Thank you very much," she sighed, staring worryingly after the little girl.

"Of course." Sherlock gave a small nod of his head towards the flustered woman, already making inferences about her. Single mother. Struggling to find a job. New boyfriend. Mother in hospital. No father.

His thoughts were interrupted as the woman continued to speak to him. "Is that little one yours?" she asked, nodding towards Hamish, who was gazing at Ava.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, smiling at his son.

"I can see the resemblance. He's beautiful." Not knowing how to respond, Sherlock gave the woman an awkward smile. Clearly unfazed, she continued. "How old is he?"

"Almost seventeen months."

"He's simply precious. My Ava's almost three. Oh! My name's Jess, by the way. Sorry about that. Oh!" she gasped excitedly, slapping her hand against Sherlock's arm. "Look at them!'

Trying not to stare at the woman, Jess, with an unusual look on his face, Sherlock turned his attention to what she had alerted him to. He felt his heart stop in his chest and his breath catch in his throat.

Hamish was giggling happily with Ava, grabbing onto the back of her pink shirt with one of his chubby hands as she started to run away, both laughing wildly with each other.

"Ava!" Hamish called happily, toddling after the little girl.

Sherlock stared after his son, as he felt his heart melt in his chest.

"Aww! I'd say they like each other, huh?" Jess said cheerfully, smiling at the two little kids.

"Mmm," was all Sherlock could manage. Trying to catch his breath, he watched as Hamish and Ava hurried back towards them.

"Who's that with you, Ava?" Jess asked, giving Sherlock a knowing smile, which the detective tried to return.

"Hamish, Mummy! He's fun!" Ava squealed happily, grabbing Hamish's arm with her own chubby hand.

Sherlock peered at Hamish, taking notice of the way the little boy was grinning happily at Ava.

"Hamish? Did you make a friend there?" he asked quietly, finally finding his voice.

"'Es, Daddy! Ava!" Smiling widely, Hamish hurried over to Sherlock and wrapped his chubby arms around the detective's leg, pressing his face into the soft fabric.

Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him as the tight feeling in his chest suddenly dissipated, and a fluttering sensation flitted through his stomach. He bent down, pulling Hamish into his arms, and pressed a gentle kiss to the little boy's brow as he finally understand the new emotions he was feeling.

"Ava, hmm? Well she seems very nice," he whispered playfully into Hamish's ear. The little boy giggled in his arms, placing one of his hands against Sherlock's lips.

"'Es, Daddy! Play at Ava?" he asked hopefully, keeping his chubby fingers pressed against his father's lips.

Gazing at Hamish with a tender look in his eyes, Sherlock eventually whispered, "Of course. Have fun." Staring at his son, the detective placed Hamish back on the ground, watching with a wistful look in his eyes as the little boy ran away with Ava, squealing happily.

"They're very cute together," Jess said, smiling at the two little kids.

"Mmm."

Jess began to chatter, not seeming to care, or even notice, that the detective was not listening to her.

Sherlock pushed his hands into his coat pockets as he began to mull over what had happened. He realized now that the strange constriction he had felt in his chest was a deep sense of protection for Hamish, as well as the mild shock he had felt. He focused his attention more on the fluttering sensation he had felt in his stomach and, upon coming to the realization, smiled to himself; Hamish was not going to be like him.

Somehow, upon seeing his son playing happily with Ava, he realized that his fears that Hamish would grow up to be like him—unusual, a freak, different—were all in vain. Hamish was normal. Hamish was socializing, just as Sherlock never had when he was young. He was going to be just fine. Hamish was wonderful and beautiful and simply perfect.

"Perfect," Sherlock murmured out loud, not even realizing he'd spoken.

"You think so? Great! We'll definitely have to get together, then, sometime so they can play some more!" Jess inputted happily, thinking Sherlock's words had been in response to her question.

"What? Oh! Umm... Sure I suppose that sounds fine," the detective answered awkwardly, turning his gaze back to Hamish. He barely noticed as Jess' phone began ringing.

"Yes?" she answered. "What? Oh! Of course, I'll be right over. Ava! Come on darling, we have to go... Quickly dear. Say goodbye to Hamish."

Sherlock watched fondly as the little girl pulled Hamish into a tight hug, which received a grunt of surprise from the little boy.

"Bye, Hamish!" Ava called, waving behind her as she hurried away towards her mother, who was already leaving the park.

Sherlock turned his attention back to Hamish, who was staring, wide-eyed, after Ava, with his mouth hanging open slightly.

"Daddy," the little boy sighed contently, slowly walking towards his father. Lips pressed together in a small grin, Sherlock picked up a very dazed-looking Hamish, pulling him onto his hip.

"Daddy... Ava baf'm'ful." The little boy gazed at the detective, and took a deep breath, a wistful look filling his deep green eyes.

Sherlock laughed out loud, pressing a cheerful kiss to Hamish's chubby cheek. "Ohhh, you are simply wonderful," he sighed happily, clutching the little boy close.

"'Ove Ava, Daddy," Hamish sighed, a small smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock grinned. "You do, huh? Well I suppose we'll just have to see her again, then won't we?"

Hamish shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and seemed to actually notice his father for the first time.

"Daddy!" he cried, now very happy, as he wrapped his chubby arms around the detective's neck. "'Ove Daddy!"

Sherlock chuckled, pressing one of his hands to the back of Hamish's head. "Well, I love you too, Hamish," he said, smiling into his son's auburn hair.

"Sherlock?" came the familiar voice of John.

Still holding Hamish close, Sherlock turned around to see John, one arm wrapped around Mary's waist, standing together on the sidewalk.

"We're just headed home. Want to follow?" the doctor called happily.

In response, Sherlock headed towards the couple, giving John a wide grin as he noticed the engagement ring on Mary's left ring finger. "Told you," he mouthed.

Grinning, and keeping his arm firmly around Mary's waist, John started to walk back to the flat, Sherlock and Hamish following closely behind.

Sleep—or rather lack thereof—finally catching up with him, Hamish snuggled into his father's coat, burrowing his face against Sherlock's neck. He yawned widely, now thoroughly tired out from all of his running around.

"Sure. Now you decide to sleep," Sherlock mumbled, rolling his eyes. Hoping to help the little boy fall asleep, the detective, who was following closely behind Mary and John, began to rub his hand up and down Hamish's back in a soothing circular motion.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed, taking a deep breath against his father's neck. "Sleep, Da'ey?" he murmured, haphazardly pressing one of his chubby hands to Sherlock's jaw.

"It would be lovely if you did," the detective whispered back, turning his head to give Hamish a gentle kiss.

"Mmmkay, Da'ey."

The four continued walking home in peace, each person content for different reasons. John and Mary chatted happily with each other while Sherlock followed, absentmindedly pressing gentle kisses to Hamish's hair, and forehead and cheeks as the little boy nuzzled deeper against his neck.

"Yes, I know," John laughed. "I mean how—" Suddenly, an ear-piercing sound shattered the air, echoing loudly in the street. Instinctively, both John and Sherlock ducked their heads down.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, contorting his body in an attempt to shield all of Hamish's small form with his own.

"I know, I know!" John shouted back, placing his hand on Mary's back as the three of them began to run. "Hamish—" John started.

"Yes!" Sprinting as fast as he could, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hamish, covering the back of the little boy's hand with one of his hands. Fear and adrenaline coursing through him, he pressed Hamish's small form close to his chest, tucking the little boy's head under his chin as the sound rippled through the air again...

Gunshots.


	20. Ouch, Daddy

Running… Adrenaline… Fear…. Pain…

"Almost there, come on!" called John.

"Hamish," Sherlock breathed upon feeling the little boy squirm in his arms.

"Daddy! Daddy 'ease!" Hamish's cries were muffled against the detective's coat.

"Come on, come on, get in!" John said anxiously as the trio reached the flat. He ushered Mary in, carefully on the lookout for more shots as Sherlock hurried into the flat, right on Mary's heels.

Adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Sherlock ran up the stairs, followed closely by John, who hurried over to Mary, checking for any injuries.

Sherlock took a shaky breath in as he felt Hamish squirm in his arms, his tiny cries filling the quiet flat.

"Hamish," he breathed in relief, pressing his face into the little boy's hair.

"Daddy! 'Ease, Daddy!" Hamish sobbed, crying into his father's shirt.

"Shh, Hamish it's okay… It's okay, Daddy's here."

Sniffing as he fought back frightened tears, Sherlock quickly knelt down on the floor, letting go of Hamish so he could check him over.

"Hamish, are you hurt?" he asked frantically, running his hands across the little boy's head and arms and stomach and legs.

"Oh thank god," he sighed, leaning forward to press his head against Hamish's tiny chest. "You're okay."

"Da'ey! What?" the little boy sobbed, wrapping his arms around the detective's head, and shoving his face into Sherlock's curly hair.

"Is he okay?" John asked worriedly, hurrying over towards his flat mates.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed in relief. "He's fine. Just shaken. But he's not hurt."

"Thank goodness," John sighed, giving the little boy a quick look-over. "I'll call Lestrade; get him over here as soon as possible to find out what the bloody hell is happening."

Sherlock gave a small nod of his head in response, still holding a crying Hamish close. He moved back and felt a small jab of pain in his abdomen, but shrugged it off, assuming it was the stitch in his side from running.

"Hamish?" he asked gently when the little boy clung tightly to his neck. "Hamish can you please look at me? Shhhh. It's okay, love. You're safe." Still kneeling down, Sherlock placed a comforting hand on Hamish's back. "Hamish, it's all okay now. Please," he plead quietly.

Sobs still shaking his tiny body, Hamish loosened his grip around the detective's neck and stared at Sherlock with tears streaming down his face.

"Daddy," he cried, face scrunching up as he started to cry again.

"No, no, no," Sherlock said quickly, brushing his thumb across the little boy's cheek. "It's all okay, Hamish. Please don't cry." He gave the little boy a reassuring smile, running one of his hands up and down Hamish's chubby arm.

The little boy sniffled, his eyes scanning the ground. "'Kay, Daddy," he mumbled sadly, pulling his gaze back up to meet Sherlock's.

"That's it. Very good job, love." Smiling reassuringly, the detective wrapped his arms around Hamish, and stood up, pulling the little boy close to his chest.

"Ah!" he gasped suddenly, feeling a sharp pain in his side. Pressing Hamish's face further into his coat, he shot John a pained look.

"Umm, Mary? Do you think you'd be able to take Hamish for a moment so John and I can go talk in the kitchen?"

"Sure," he she answered warily, taking a shaky breath.

"Hamish? I need you to go with Mary for a second, okay? Do you think you can do that for me?" he asked gently.

The little boy pulled away from Sherlock's coat, an alarmed look on his tear-stained face. "Daddy? What?" he asked worriedly, gripping onto the detective's shirt. His breath started to come in quick, short breaths.

"Shhh, Hamish. It's okay, it's okay," he whispered quietly, rubbing his hand up and down the little boy's back. "I just need to go and talk to John for a moment right there in the kitchen, see? I'm not leaving, I promise." Giving his son what he hoped was a reassuring look, he slowly brushed his fingers over the top of Hamish's cheek. "Think you can do that for me?"

His grip tightening around Sherlock, Hamish sniffled. "Daddy Hame help?" he asked in a tiny voice.

"Yes. Yes, Daddy needs your help. Think you can help me out?"

The little boy contemplated for a moment, releasing his grip and staring at Sherlock's neck. "Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy," he said reluctantly.

"Good man," John whispered in a comforting voice.

"Thank you, Hamish. I'll be right back."

"'Kay, Daddy." Sniffling again, Hamish threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, giving the detective a wet kiss on his neck before reluctantly stretching his arms out towards Mary.

Smiling sadly, Sherlock gave Hamish a quick kiss on his cheek, passed the tiny boy to Mary, and then hurried away into the kitchen. Not completely understanding, John quickly followed, giving Mary an apologetic yet grateful look.

Sherlock stood, smiling at Hamish, and waited until the two moved out of view as Mary went to sit on the couch. He turned to John, trying to ignore the burning pain in his side.

"John," he stated, quickly pulling of his coat.

"Sherlock, what's happen—" The doctor stopped speaking as Sherlock pulled off his suit jacket to reveal a large pool of blood staining his white shirt.

"God, Sherlock!" John cried, instantly switching into doctor mode. He rushed forward, shoving Sherlock down into a chair. "Take your shirt off; I need to see if you've been shot."

Wincing in pain, Sherlock quickly undid his shirt, tossing the blood-stained fabric towards the bin. He looked down at his abdomen to see a large spot of blood quickly forming around his waist.

"Agh!" he sighed in pain as John quickly pressed his fingers to the skin.

"Sorry!" the doctor apologized quickly. "Hold on." A determined look on face, John quickly ran around the kitchen, grabbing everything he might need and then hurried back to Sherlock, who was waiting patiently in the chair.

"Okay. Here we go." Placing all of the items he had gathered on the ground, John knelt down, grabbing a cloth he had wet down with cool water. "This is going to sting a little," he informed Sherlock.

"Fine." The detective waited calmly as John began to clean away the blood, making the damage appear muss less substantial. A small hiss escaped the detective's lips as John rubbed the rough cloth over the wound, making it twinge with pain.

"Sorry," John murmured quietly, carefully cleaning away the last of the blood. He stared at the gash on Sherlock's waist and sighed in relief. "It just grazed you," he said, smiling up at his flat mate. "Nothing too serious… The cut is rather deep, but it's nothing a little bit of bandaging won't fix up." He gently tapped Sherlock on the knee, and stood up, going over to the sink to wash the blood-covered towel.

"Daddy 'kay?" came Hamish's small voice from the other room. Sherlock smiled to himself, before calling back. "Yes, Hamish. I'm fine. Thank you. I should be out in just a few moments."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy. Soon?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, Hamish. Very soon." He grinned as he heard Hamish mutter something unintelligible to himself.

"He's quite worried about you," John chuckled, coming back over to Sherlock, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in his hands.

"Mmm," the detective murmured, staring warily at the bottle in John's hand.

"I know, I know. But we need to make sure it doesn't get infected. Better this than having to go to hospital, hmm?" he asked, kneeling back down on the ground.

"Ugh. Please, John," he said with an eye roll. "Just—just get it over with." Frowning slightly, Sherlock shifted in his chair, stretching his torso towards John in preparation.

"Don't be such a child," John chuckled, pouring some of the alcohol onto a clean cloth. "Ready?"

"Mmm."

With expert fingers, John tenderly pressed the cloth to the rather large cut on Sherlock's abdomen.

The detective inhaled sharply, giving John an icy glare as he saw the doctor chuckle to himself. "You know, you could be enjoying this a little less, Jo—"

"John! NO! What doing at Daddy?!"

Sherlock and John both turned towards the doorway to see an absolutely petrified Hamish staring at the bleeding wound on his father's side.

"No, no, no, no, Hamish, listen to me," Sherlock began calmly, trying to stand up off the chair.

"No, Sherlock," John tried, but his friend was already hurrying towards Hamish.

"I'm so sorry!" Mary called, quickly running up behind the little boy. "He just sort of—"

"Daddy!" Hamish cried, running forward as fast as his chubby legs would allow. He desperately wrapped his arms around Sherlock's leg, clinging to the fabric and attempting to scramble upwards into his father's arms.

"Shh, Hamish. It's okay," the detective said gently, lifting the little boy into his arms. He tried to turn Hamish's head away from the cut on his side, not wanting to upset the little boy even more. Mary quickly hurried out of the kitchen, clearly still shaken.

"No, Daddy," the little boy said firmly, fighting against Sherlock's hands. His eyes fell upon the small gash across his father's middle, which had now started to bleed again.

"Daddy!" the little boy gasped, staring at his father's skin. Eyes quickly filling with tears, he looked back at Sherlock, his breath already becoming quick and uneven.

"Hamish, look at me," Sherlock said gently, sitting back down in the chair. He quickly brushed his fingertips across Hamish's cheek, wanting to console the tiny boy. "Hamish, I'm okay. Really. Daddy's not hurt. John is just helping me to fix an ouch," he continued quietly, giving his son a sad smile as a tear quickly slid free from Hamish's eyes. "It's okay," he murmured once more, leaning forward. Tenderly, he kissed Hamish's cheek, clearing away the tear with his lips.

The little boy closed his eyes, causing more tears to slide free, and gently pressed one of his hands to Sherlock's cheekbone.

"Bu—bu," he sniffled as the detective leaned back. "Bu' John ouch Daddy," he cried, a new wave of sadness washing over him. He began to sob and pressed himself forward, snuffling into Sherlock's neck as he cried.

Hoping to comfort his son, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hamish, enveloping him in a safe embrace.

"Hamish," he began gently. "John wasn't hurting me; he's helping to make the ouch go away, see?" Sherlock slowly rubbed his hand up and down against Hamish's back, frowning as the little boy sobbed against him.

"Please don't cry," he murmured sadly, pressing his nose into Hamish's silky hair.

The little boy sniffled, placing both of his hands against Sherlock's collarbone as he pulled away from the detective, face stained with tears.

"So… So John no ouch Daddy?" he sniffled quietly, staring with wide eyes at his father. "John 'ix Daddy?"

"Yes," breathed Sherlock. "John's fixing Daddy's ouch. See? Everything's okay." He gave Hamish a reassuring smile, brushing his thumb across the little boy's cheek to wipe away the tears. "Please don't cry…" He smiled again, letting his hand remain on the side of Hamish's head.

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy said quietly, pressing one of his chubby hands to Sherlock's lips as he leaned into the detective's touch. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock murmured against his son's fingers.

"Hame help Daddy ouch?"

Sherlock smiled warmly, glancing at John.

"I would be delighted to have your help, Hamish." The little boy smiled half-heartedly, his fingers curling against Sherlock's skin.

"'Kay, Daddy," he said quietly. "What do? Help John at ouch?"

"Well," the doctor started quietly. "I'm not sure there's a whole lot you can help me with, but," he paused and leaned in close to Hamish's ear, whispering loudly. "I think Daddy could use some help being brave, hmm?" The doctor grinned as he saw the corner of Hamish's mouth turn upward in a small smile.

"What do, John?" the little boy asked earnestly.

"Well," the doctor said, leaning back. "What I'm about to do might sting a little so how about you let Daddy hold your hand while I patch him up?"

"Oh," the little boy said, suddenly very serious. "'Kay, John." He turned to Sherlock, completely unaware that the detective had heard the entire conversation.

"John say Hame 'old Daddy hand," the little boy said sweetly, giving Sherlock a comforting smile. "So no ouch."

"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock said earnestly, smiling at the little boy in his lap.

"'Es, Daddy. Here. Hame hand." Keeping one of his chubby hands pressed against his father's collarbone, Hamish reached down and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's thumb. "'Old, Daddy," he said expectantly.

"Of course. Sorry." Smiling at his son, Sherlock closed his hand, wrapping his slender fingers around Hamish's chubby hand.

"'Kay, Daddy?" he asked worriedly, noticing how John was dumping more liquid onto the cloth. He gave Sherlock a fearful look, having noticed how earlier the cloth with the liquid had caused his father pain.

"It's okay, Hamish," Sherlock murmured softly, giving Hamish's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"'Kay, Daddy… 'Eady?"

The detective smiled. "I'm ready if you are."

"'Es. 'Kay, John. Daddy 'eady."

The doctor chuckled. "Good. Okay, here we go."

Hamish watched with wide, fearful eyes as John moved the cloth closer and closer to Sherlock's skin.

"No, Daddy!" he whimpered, turning around in the detective's lap. Squeezing his father's thumb with all of his might, Hamish pressed his face into Sherlock's jaw and clenched his eyes shut.

Both John and Sherlock chuckled to themselves. The detective winced slightly as John pressed the wet cloth to his skin, but he continued to smile down at Hamish.

"Hamish," he chuckled, squeezing the little boy's hand. "It's all right. Look. John's all done." Gently, Sherlock placed his free hand to the back of Hamish's head and coaxed the little boy away from his jaw, hoping he would see that all was fine.

Cautiously, Hamish opened his eyes. "Oh," he sighed in relief upon seeing his father's skin, clear of all blood and now almost properly bandaged.

"There," John said, giving a small nod of his head and smiling happily at his work as he taped the last bit of gauze to Sherlock's skin.

"All done, Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, gazing at the detective with worried eyes.

Sherlock smiled, running his fingertips up and down Hamish's back. "Yes, Hamish. It's all done. No more ouch. And thank you very much for all of your help." The detective gave the little boy a quick wink, brushing his finger across his son's chin. He leaned in, whispering in Hamish's ear. "I'm not sure I could have done it without you."

Hamish grinned at Sherlock, covering his mouth as he giggled.

"But don't tell John. We can't have him feeling left out, now can we?" The detective smiled against Hamish's hair as he felt the little boy laughing in his lap.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered loudly, leaning up to wrap his chubby arms around his father's neck, pulling the detective into a tight hug.

"Hame g'ad Daddy 'etter. Ta, John. Make Daddy 'etter."

John chuckled to himself as he quickly discarded Sherlock's bloodied shirt, knowing it would upset Hamish if he saw it. "You're very welcome, Hamish," he said, smiling at the little boy. "I'm happy that you're glad Daddy's better."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, giving the doctor a warm smile as he stood up, pulling Hamish into his arms.

"Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly, talking into Sherlock's jaw as he kept his arms wrapped around the detective's neck.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock asked gently, gazing down at Hamish.

"Umm… Hame kiss ouch?" Hamish asked quietly, peering up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

The detective paused to gaze at his son, a small smile playing on his lips.

"So make 'etter," Hamish added quickly, worried that his father was laughing at his proposition.

"That would be lovely," Sherlock said quietly, giving Hamish a reassuring smile. "Here." Moving carefully the detective slowly squatted down and placed Hamish on the ground, turning his body so as to give the little boy easier access.

A sweet smile on his face, Hamish placed both of his hands on either side of his father's bandage. Moving slowly, he leaned forward and pressed an incredibly light kiss Sherlock's waist. His fingers curled gently against the detective's skin as he pulled away, gazing happily at his father.

"Daddy 'etter now John an' Hame help."

The detective laughed, pulling his son into a tight hug. "Mmm! You're just wonderful, Hamish," he said, pressing a kiss to Hamish's auburn curls. "Yes. I am much better now that both you and John have helped. Thank you very much." He placed his hand to the back of the little boy's curls, taking a deep breath. "I love you very much."

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish whispered into his father's chest. He took a deep breath, resting his head against the detective's skin.

The adrenaline leaving his tiny body, and now wrapped in the comforting embrace of his father, Hamish leaned forward, resting his weight against Sherlock's chest.

"Daddy," he said quietly, tapping a chubby finger against the detective's shoulder. "Tired, Daddy… 'Eep?" He yawned widely, pressing his face into Sherlock's bare skin.

"Of course," the detective murmured, pulling Hamish's sleepy form into his arms as he stood up. He began to gently sway back and forth, giving John a quick smile as he left the kitchen to tend to Mary.

"You've had a big day," he continued softly, whispering against Hamish's hair as he continued to sway back and forth. "I'm sorry about… All of it… I'll find out what happened, I promise. But for now, just sleep… You've earned it."

Hamish sighed quietly, soothed by the deep, rumbling voice of his father and leaned forward, his head gently bumping against Sherlock's collarbone.

"You were very brave today. And I am very proud of you."

"Mmm," Hamish hummed, his eyes fluttering shut as Sherlock began to rub soothing circles on his back.

Mumbling tiredly to himself, Hamish snuggled deeper into Sherlock's hold, shifting slightly as he turned his head, pressing his cheek against the detective's neck. Fingers curling against his father's skin, Hamish took a deep breath and quickly slipped away into sleep.

Gazing lovingly at his son, Sherlock slowly meandered out of the kitchen.

"Hey, Sherlock," John said, turning away from where he had been kneeling in front of Mary. He paused upon seeing the sleeping Hamish in his flat mate's arms. "Oh! Sorry." He quickly dropped his voice to a whisper. "Look, Mary's pretty shaken up. I'm going to take her home and stay with her tonight. Lestrade should be on his way soon, so when he gets here tell him what happened and see if he can't get to the bottom of what's going on." John sighed deeply, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he gazed at Hamish, who had started mumbling to himself in his sleep.

"All right," Sherlock answered quietly, absentmindedly rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back. "We should be allright here. I'll keep an eye out and talk to Lestrade when he gets here."

"Thanks," John breathed, giving his friend a thankful smile. "I should be back early tomorrow." He turned around, helping Mary up off the couch. "See you," he said, hurrying out the flat.

Smiling after John, Sherlock took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Hamish's breath against his chest.

"Ohh," he sighed, slowly meandering into his room.

Sherlock slid onto the bed and gently moved Hamish downwards on his chest, hoping he had not jostled the little boy.

Trying to clear his head, and push away the mild sense of panic he still felt coursing through his veins, Sherlock closed his eyes, and sunk deeper into the bed, squeezing his eyes shut.

"We're okay," he murmured out loud, rubbing his thumb up and down against Hamish's back.

Smiling to himself as he felt Hamish sigh against his skin, Sherlock closed his eyes, soothed by the soft light streaming in through his window and the feel of Hamish sleeping against his chest.


	21. Stars

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of someone bustling up the stairs. Moving slowly, he rolled to the side and carefully placed Hamish on the bed. Smiling sweetly at small boy, the detective quickly slipped out of his room, shutting the door behind him.

"Lestrade, there was-"

"I know. John already called and told me."

"Oh... Good. Well, have you found anything?"

"Well... Sort of but—" he began, upon seeing the detective tense up. "I can't really tell you yet what we've found."

Sherlock froze. He could already feel his blood begin to boil. "What do you mean you can't tell me? We were shot at, my son was threatened—could even have been killed and you just can't tell me?" the detective hissed. He hurried over to Lestrade, giving him an icy glare.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock!" the DI answered hastily, throwing his arms up in surrender. "But we just need to... Check some things out first." He gave the detective an apologetic smile.

Sherlock stopped, eyes narrowing as they quickly raked up and down the Inspector, analyzing him. His head slowly pulled back as he understood. He straightened up, interlocking both of his hands behind his back.

"What's his name?" he asked, suddenly very calm, as he stared at the DI with an expectant gaze.

"What? How—"

"You clearly have the shooter in custody and do not wish me to speak to him. What is his name and when will I be allowed to speak with him?"

"Now hold on," Lestrade began, very uncomfortable by how calm Sherlock was being. "You know I can't tell you his name and at this point, I'm not sure I'm going to allow you talk to him. I mean—I do kind of need him alive to press charges."

Sherlock chuckled darkly, giving the Inspector a sly half-smile. "Okay... Very well... I trust you'll inform me of any new information you discover about him, though," he stated, not even bothering to make it a question.

"Umm... Sure. Right! Of course I will... How's Hame doing? Is he okay?"

"He's fine, luckily. Shaken by the whole ordeal, but physically... Unharmed."

"Well that's good, isn't it?I'm glad to hear he's okay. John mentioned you actually got shot?"

"No, no. Just grazed," Sherlock said nonchalantly, now slightly embarrassed.

"Right," Lestrade said slowly and with a sly smile. "Well then, I'd best be off." Suddenly, and now very serious, the Inspector leaned forward towards his friend. "Don't worry. I'll make sure he gets put away... For good." He gave Sherlock a reassuring smile and a quick clap on the shoulder. "Be sure to tell Hame I said hi. Oh! And don't worry; I'll find a way to let you talk to him... I know you really want to. And technically speaking, you do have a right to see him." He gave Sherlock another warm smile upon seeing the detective tense ever so slightly at his words. "Besides!" he added cheerfully. "If I don't allow you to see him, I know you'll find a less... Let's say a less "orthodox" way of getting what you want, right?"

Sherlock managed a small smile, the corners of his lips twitching upward, as he knew the Inspector was correct. "Thank you, Lestrade," he said sincerely, truly grateful for the Inspector and all of his help. "Text me as soon as you learn anything," he added.

"'Course. See you later." With one last quick smile, the DI turned around and hurried down the stairs and out of the flat.

As soon as he knew Lestrade had left, Sherlock hurried over to the window and looked out, staring down at the many police cars in front of the flat. His eyes quickly scanned the scene, desperately hoping to get a glimpse of the man who had shot at his family.

He felt his heart stop as he saw Lestrade ushering a man, whose hands were handcuffed behind his back, into a squad car. Forcing himself to think straight, Sherlock quickly raked his gaze up and down the man, looking for any clues he might be able to find about the man.

His mind began to quickly sort through all of the details he could see about the man: Balding; short in stature; very self-conscious; wearing an old, very worn-out suit; means he recently lost job; lost custody of his children approximately eleven months ago; heavy drinker; has no—

Sherlock's thoughts were cut off as Lestrade quickly pushed the man into the car and out of sight. He couldn't help but smile as he noticed the amount of force the Inspector used, understanding that fierce sense of protection.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sherlock backed away from the window as he heard the squad cars come to life, sirens blaring.

"Right," he muttered to himself, thoughts racing with possibilities. His mind was quickly separating all of the details he had noticed about the man, trying to form a coherent picture, a story, anything, about the man.

"No... No... Possibly," he murmured, sorting through scenarios as he slowly paced back and forth around the flat, hands steepled against his lips. He was pulled from his thinking by a small call from his room.

"Daddy?"

"I'm just here, Hamish," Sherlock called gently. Fighting his instincts, he pushed aside all of his thoughts and speculations and hurried into his room.

 

 

Throughout the rest of the day, Sherlock often found himself to be staring wistfully at Hamish. The detective found that he was craving the comfort of his son's touch much more than usual; he kept gently brushing his fingers across the little boy's hands, his face, his curly hair, all in an effort to reassure himself that his son was safe. The shooting had jolted him into the realization that just as quickly as Hamish had entered his life, he could be taken out of it...

Sherlock was sitting on the ground, mulling over his thoughts as Hamish was sat next to him, playing with some toy blocks. Feeling that strange sense of panic coursing through him again, the detective leaned forward and gently brushed the tips of fingers across his son's cheek. Suddenly, with that little touch, the feeling of panic was replaced by a reassuring wave of relief. He took a deep breath and began to gently twirl a lock of Hamish's auburn curls between his fingers. Lips turning upward ever so slightly, he began to stare at the little once again.

Blocks quickly forgotten upon feeling his father playing with his hair, Hamish quickly turned towards Sherlock, brows pulled together in confusion. His features softened, to be replaced by a small smile as he noticed the detective staring at him again.

"Daddy?" he whispered quietly, crawling over and into his father's lap.

"Hmm? Oh! I was doing it again, wasn't I?" Sherlock asked gently, suddenly pulled out of his trance as he felt Hamish crawl over his legs. He smiled fondly, scooping the little boy into his arms.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish giggled happily, holding tightly to Sherlock. Smiling widely, the little boy leaned forward, resting his head against the detective's collarbone.

"Sorry," Sherlock chuckled, hugging the little boy close.

"What, Daddy?" Hamish asked, voice slightly muffled, as he spoke against Sherlock's skin.

"Ohh," the detective sighed, standing up off the ground. He started to slowly pace around the flat, holding Hamish close to his chest. "Do you mean why do I keep staring at you?" He playfully tickled Hamish's stomach.

"'Es, Daddy!" the little boy giggled happily, pulling his face away from the detective's collar.

"Well... I suppose it's... Just because I love you so much... And I like to know that you're safe," he murmured quietly, pushing some of Hamish's unruly curls away from his forehead.

"Oh," the little boy responded quietly, not quite understanding. "'Kay, Daddy. 'Ove!" Hoping to reassure his father in some way, Hamish reached forward and wrapped his arms around the detective, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Oh! Well thank you, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, wrapping his arms around the small boy. "I love you, too." Smiling lovingly, he pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's temple. "Come on, then. Let's go watch some quick telly before bed, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish replied cheerily, keeping his arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck.

 

 

 

Hamish fell asleep in Sherlock's lap, his limp body draped across the detective's legs. Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock gently pulled the little boy into his arms and carried him into his room.

Gingerly, so as not to wake him, Sherlock slowly lowered his son's limp form into the cot, and quickly pulled off his shirt and pants. He gently draped Hamish's favorite blanket over his body. "There you go, love. Sleep well," he whispered. Gazing fondly at his son, Sherlock bent down and pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's forehead, feeling that same sense of relief wash over him again.

Smiling to himself, the detective quickly crawled into bed, closing his eyes as he listened to his son's gentle breathing.

 

 

At some point during the night, Sherlock had awoken, that familiar feeling of panic gripping his body. He quickly leaned over the side of his bed and glanced into the cot, just to check and make sure Hamish was fast asleep.

After seeing his son sleeping soundly, the detective tried to fall asleep. But, after having no success, Sherlock leaned over the side of the bed, and slowly lifted Hamish out of the cot. He pulled the little boy close to his chest and wrapped his arms around his son's small form, sighing quietly in relief.

"I've got you..."

The detective lay awake in bed, Hamish snuggled tightly against his chest. He listened contently to the sound of the little boy's deep breathing, smiling ever so slightly at the feel of his son's breath against his skin.

His mind began to wander once again to the few seconds he had seen the shooter, mentally pouring over any and all details he may have missed. His thoughts were interrupted, though, as he felt Hamish's body tense in his arms. Brows pulled together in confusion, Sherlock loosened his grip around the small boy's body, worried he'd been holding him too tightly.

"Mmm, no..." Hamish mumbled, his voice sounding small and frightened.

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked, now very worried. He hurried pulled Hamish back to his chest and sat up in the bed. Already beginning to murmur soothing words, the detective quickly placed his hand on the back of the little boy's head and began to gently rock back and forth, hoping to comfort his distressed son.

"Hamish... Shh, it's okay," he whispered as he felt the little boy grab a fistful of his shirt in his tiny hands.

"No... No, Da'ey!" Hamish sobbed, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest.

"No, no, no, Hamish. Wake up, love. Please! It's okay, I'm here," the detective murmured hurriedly, desperately trying to wake the little boy up and pull him away from his nightmare. He brushed his fingertips across Hamish's cheek, whispering soothing words in his ear.

With a loud gasp, Hamish jolted awake, his breath quick and uneven. He frantically searched around the room, his eyes darting back and forth as he looked around for Sherlock.

"Hamish, shh... Look at me, I'm right here. It's okay, love," Sherlock soothed, trying to get the little boy to look at him.

Upon hearing his father speak, Hamish quickly turned back towards the noise, eyes widening as he saw the detective.

"Daddy," he sighed in relief. Closing his eyes, Hamish quickly leaned forward and pressed his face into Sherlock's shirt, flailing his arms forward in an effort to wrap them around his father's neck, though one ended up resting against the detective's collarbone, the other pressing tightly against his lips. "Daddy," he whispered again, squeezing his eyes together in an effort to chase away the memories of the nightmare.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, talking against Hamish's fingers. He quickly pulled the little boy closer and began to rub his hand up and down his bare back. Knowing how it always seemed to calm him down, the detective started to twirl some of Hamish's silky hair between his fingers. "It's okay now... I'm here..."

Smiling gladly as he felt his son relax in his arms, Sherlock slowly bent down, and pressed his cheek to the top of Hamish's head, taking a deep breath.

"Da'ey," the little boy sniffled sadly, turning his head back and forth against his father's chest.

"I know," Sherlock murmured. "I'm sorry... Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Daddy-Da-Daddy ouch," Hamish whispered, snuffing quietly against Sherlock's shirt. "Bad." Slowly, the tiny boy pulled away, sniffling loudly as he did so. "Bad, Daddy," he said quietly, gazing up at the detective with watery eyes.

"Bad..." Sherlock murmured, pulling his head away so he could look at Hamish. Smiling sadly, he began to wipe away his son's tears. He paused, letting his thumb rest just to the right of Hamish's cheek. Thinking quickly, the detective stared at his son with a tender gaze.

"I want to show you something," he whispered eventually, brushing some of Hamish's curls off of his forehead. "Come here." Groaning softly, he pulled Hamish, who was now very tired and rubbing at his eyes with tiny fists, into his arms.

"What, Da'ey?" he asked quietly, eyes heavy as he held tightly to Sherlock. Too tired to care about the answer, Hamish leaned forward, trying to wipe the sleep and tears away from his eyes, and pressed his head into his father's shoulder.

"Shh... It's okay." Sherlock murmured quietly, pausing to gaze down at Hamish. Noticing how the little boy appeared to be very confused and extremely tired, the detective simply pressed a gentle kiss to Hamish's cheek. "Nothing, love," he whispered quietly.

Smiling at his son, Sherlock wandered out of his room, gently bouncing Hamish in his arms. "Okay," he sighed quietly, walking over to the window.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, rubbing his hand up and down the little boy's back.

"Hmm? 'Es Da'ey?" Wanting to listen to his father, Hamish tiredly opened his eyes and gazed up at the detective.

Smiling, Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his shoulder against the window. "Look out for me."

Blinking slowly, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion, Hamish slowly leaned forward and gazed out of the window, staring up at the sky.

Suddenly, all tiredness momentarily forgotten, Hamish's eyes widened as he looked up at the vast night sky.

"Wow, Daddy," he sighed in amazement, absentmindedly pressing his chubby fingers against the detective's cheek.

Grinning at his son's wonder, Sherlock began to gently sway back and forth.

"Do you know what those are, Hamish?" he asked gently.

Eyes bright with wonder and amazement, the little boy pulled his attention away from the window to stare, wide-eyed at Sherlock. "No, Daddy... What?"

"Those are called stars," Sherlock murmured quietly, rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back. "There's billions and billions of them out there. They're beautiful, aren't they?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed in wonder, nodding his head up and down. "Bat'um'ful..." Sighing deeply in sheer amazement, the little boy leaned back in Sherlock's arms, resting his head against the detective's shoulder. He continued to stare out of the window, mouth hanging open. He began to whisper to himself, absentmindedly wrapping his chubby hand around one of Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock smiled lovingly, delicately running his thumb across Hamish's small hand. He took notice of the way the little boy's eyelids began to slide shut.

"You know," he murmured slowly, gazing at Hamish as he spoke. "Someone once told me a secret about the stars... Would you like to hear?"

Fighting to keep his eyes open, Hamish turned in Sherlock's arms and snuggled tightly against the detective's chest, anxious to hear what his father's had to say. "'Es, Daddy," he whispered quietly, gazing up at the detective from where he was resting.

"Well," Sherlock began quietly, hoping to get Hamish to fall asleep. Smiling, he started to slowly pace around the flat, keeping one of his hands on Hamish's back. "Someone once told me that if you ever have a nightmare, when you wake up, you should make a wish. Now the stars, they hear those wishes. And do you know what happens when they hear a child make a wish?"

"What, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, staring expectantly at Sherlock.

"Well when the stars hear a child's wish, a brand new star is formed. And that star, that one twinkling, shining star, watches over that child... Protects them... Grants their wishes... So, how about we make a wish, hmm?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," Hamish murmured.

"Good. Right. Now... Close your eyes... And when you're ready, make a wish!"

Sherlock watched, smiling to himself as Hamish shut his eyes, whispering to himself. Feeling that oh-so-familiar warmth flooding his chest, the detective leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of Hamish's head just as the little boy finished making his wish.

"Done?" the detective murmured happily, quickly brushing his thumb across Hamish's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy. Hame Star?" he asked hopefully.

Sherlock chuckled happily, pulling his son into a tight hug as he returned to his room. "Yes, Hamish. Now you have your own star; a Hamish Star."

"Ohh," the little boy sighed happily, leaning forward. Exhausted, and the small amount of excitement now over, Hamish pressed his small form against Sherlock's chest, yawning widely as the detective climbed into the bed.

"Mmm... Nigh' night, Daddy... 'Ove," he whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open long enough to say goodnight to his father.

"Good night, Hamish... I love you, too. Sleep well, love." Smiling tiredly, Sherlock leaned down and pressed an incredibly tender kiss to his son's forehead. "No more nightmares tonight..."

"Mmm..." And with a quiet sigh, Hamish quickly fell asleep, resting soundly on his father's chest.

Sherlock smiled to himself, closing his eyes as he waited for sleep to come, listening to the steady breaths of his son. He thought about the story he'd just told his son... And knew that if it had been any other person, he would have instantly pointed out all of the inconsistencies and impossibilities with the idea of a wish becoming a star. But, knowing somehow that what he'd just done would help chase away his son's nightmares and fears... For once it didn't matter.


	22. A Shooter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Okay so just a warning, this has not been proofread yet, so there are probably going to be many mistakes! Just please be aware and excuse; I will fix them as soon as possible. =) Thanks! Also, this one may or may not be changing a lot, so if you're interested, check back in to see if there have been changes or not. You guys are absolutely wonderful! Thanks so much! See you, guys! =)

Sherlock was awoken by the loud, unwelcome ringing of his mobile ringing in his ear. Hoping the shrill noise would not wake Hamish, the detective hurriedly found his phone and pushed it to his ear.

"What?" he asked groggily, not bothering with social graces.

"Sherlock?" came the serious voice of Lestrade. Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. Instantly alert, he rolled over, gently letting Hamish slide off his chest.

"Mmm," the little boy grunted in his sleep. Momentarily, jostled, Hamish's face scrunched up in discomfort. Hoping to regain his comfortable position, Hamish tucked his arms and legs inward, curling up against Sherlock's side.

Anxiously awaiting Lestrade's news, Sherlock moved upward ever so slightly, placing his free hand on Hamish's bare back.

"What have you found?" he asked, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Hamish's skin. He could hear Lestrade take a deep breath on the other end of the line.

"Well," he started and Sherlock could tell the Inspector was weary of the information he was about to convey. "It appears our bloke's name is Harold Schuester. He's forty-two years old, is divorced and has three kids, ages seven, ten, and fifteen. Two days ago, he lost custody of all of the kids, reason being, he's an avid drinker. I guess his wife felt uncomfortable leaving her kids with an alcoholic, one who has violent tendencies, or so it seems... Anyway! He lost all custody of the kids and that clearly just threw him over the edge." Lestrade paused, taking a deep breath.

"And?" Sherlock prompted, knuckles turning white as he gripped onto the phone. Sensing something was coming, he pulled Hamish closer to his side feeling fiercely protective of the little boy.

"And... It appears up until about four months ago, he was the manager of an orphanage. An orphanage that just happens to be the one Hamish was living at. Yeah, it seems a certain Mycroft Holmes had it shut down shortly after you adopted Hamish." Lestrade stopped, bracing himself for anything that may be coming from the other end of the line.

Sherlock paused, mulling over Lestrade's words. "I'll be right over," he said eventually. "And I'll bring John."

"Good. See you guys when you get here."

The detective took a deep breath and clicked the phone off. He glanced down at Hamish, who was sleeping soundly, snuggling against his side. Despite the anxiousness he was feeling, Sherlock smiled at the sight, and bent down to press a tender kiss to the top of Hamish's head.

Still smiling, he pulled away and leaned back against the headboard. He quickly dialed John's number and put the phone back to his ear.

"Sh'lock?" came the groggy voice of John.

"Yes. Listen, John, Lestrade just called and they have the shooter in custody and he wants us to come in to talk to him."

"Oh! Oh, right... Um... Okay." The sound of rustling could be heard and Sherlock guessed John was crawling out of Mary's bed.

"I plan on coming to pick you up as soon as Hamish wakes up. But, John—Um—There's something else."

There was a pause. "What is it?"

"The shooter? It appears he used to run the orphanage Hamish was living at." Sherlock couldn't help as his mouth twisted into a snarl.

"What?" John said quietly from the other end of the line. Though Hamish was not his child, John still shared a connection with the little boy and he felt anger start to burn in his veins. "I'll be ready when you get here," he said firmly.

Sherlock sensed the change in John's tone and gave a terse nod of his head. "Good. We should be over soon... John?"

"Yes?"

"Umm... Thank you. I appreciate it."

John smiled. "Of course."

Without needing to exchange any more words, both the detective and the doctor hung up at the same time, each having a mutual understanding of what was awaiting for that day.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock quickly tossed the phone to the other side of the bed and gazed down at Hamish. Smiling to himself, he gently patted the little boy's bottom.

"Hamish?" he whispered gently, pulling his son's small form into his arms.

"Mmm," Hamish groaned unhappily, frowning as he opened his eyes. "Daddy," he whined, leaning forward to press his face into Sherlock's collarbone.

"Morning," the detective chuckled, gently ruffling Hamish's wild curls.

"No, Daddy," the little boy mumbled in reply, rubbing his forehead against Sherlock's shirt.

Chuckling happily, the detective leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Hamish's forehead. "Come on," he said cheerfully, wrapping his arms around the little boy as he slid off the bed. "Time to get dressed."

"No 'ease?" Hamish asked tiredly, peering up at his father from where he was resting.

Grinning fondly, Sherlock brushed his fingertips over the little boy's forehead, pushing some of Hamish's curls off his forehead.

"How about I go get dressed and you can keep sleeping, hmm?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish mumbled sleepily, nodding against Sherlock's neck.

"Excellent," the detective chuckled, turning back to the bed. Smiling fondly, Sherlock lowered Hamish's sleepy form onto the bed and gently pried his chubby fingers from around his collar. He pulled the duvet around his son's body.

"Hmm," he hummed, quickly brushing his thumb over the little boy's cheek before turning away from the bed to get dressed.

 

After having finished getting dressed in his signature suit and putting Hamish's bag together, Sherlock slowly crept back into his room.

"Hamish?" he whispered, gently pulling the covers away from Hamish's small body.

"Hmm?" the little boy murmured, opening his eyes to gaze at Sherlock. "Uppey tie?"

"Yes," Sherlock smiled. "Up time."

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy." With bleary eyes, Hamish lifted his arms up towards the detective, yawning widely as he waited to be picked up.

"Here we go." Keeping Hamish on his hip, Sherlock quickly moved around the room, grabbing some clothes as the little boy started to wake up. Clothes in hand, he set Hamish on the bed, and quickly changed his nappy. "Which one?" he asked, holding up two of Hamish's favorite shirts: a purple button up and a dark blue t-shirt with an orange dinosaur.

"Daddy's!" Hamish called happily, pointing at the purple button up.

Sherlock grinned. "I agree! Excellent choice." Practically beaming, the detective quickly pulled on the shirt, followed closely by a pair of trousers.

"Ohh," he groaned quietly as he placed Hamish on the ground. "You're getting so big! Soon you'll be as big as I am!" he exclaimed comically, squatting down to gently tickle the little boy's stomach with his fingertips.

"Daddy!" Hamish laughed, trying to shove his father's hands away. He fell forward, wrapping his chubby arms around the detective's neck.

"Come on then," Sherlock chuckled, retuning the hug. "We've got a big day ahead of us." After a quick kiss on the cheek, the detective straightened, and lowered his hand for Hamish. Once he felt his son's chubby hand safely in his own, Sherlock closed his slender fingers, wrapping them around Hamish's.

"Ready?" he asked, grinning lovingly as he saw the likeness between him and his son. He gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish said sweetly, giving a tiny squeeze back.

"Good."

 

After picking up John, the trio of flat mates were on their way to the Yard, with Hamish talking happily to John all the way.

Both Sherlock and the doctor exchanged several knowing glances during the cab ride, smiling fondly at the little boy settled between them.

 

"Unk Greg!" Hamish cried happily, releasing the hold he had around Sherlock's hand to toddle haphazardly towards the Inspector.

"Oh! Hey there little man!" Lestrade said happily, scooping the little boy up into his arms. "How are you doing, Hame?" he asked, giving Hamish a tight hug.

"Hame good!"

Lestrade chuckled, setting the small boy back on the ground. Grinning happily, Hamish hurried back over to Sherlock and John. He reached up, gently tugging on the detective's hand.

"Up, Daddy?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course." Smiling fondly, Sherlock lifted Hamish into his arms placing him onto his hip. Both he and John turned their attention to Lestrade.

"Umm, if you could please tell me where—"

"Hey, hey, hold on, hold on," Greg interrupted quickly, hurrying over towards the two friends. "I know. I know you're anxious to see him, but listen." He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. "There's a man in my office—very nicely dressed and—uh—with an umbrella... He claims he knows you?"

The smile instantly leaving his face, Sherlock turned his attention towards Lestrade's office, frowning as he saw Mycroft happily twirling his umbrella back and forth around the air.

"Yes," he sighed unhappily. "That would be Mycroft, my brother."

"Wait—Your—"

"My! Daddy, Daddy, My!"

"Yes, yes I see. Here you go." Almost reluctantly, Sherlock placed Hamish, who was practically bouncing up and down in his arms, on the ground, allowing the little boy to run over to Mycroft. For some reason, though Sherlock couldn't possibly imagine why, Hamish had taken quite a liking to his brother, always enjoying the umbrella he carried with him and his funny-looking suits.

"Hello, Hamish," Mycroft exclaimed happily, leaning down to give Hamish a quick pat on the head while the little boy wrapped his arms around his leg.

"Please," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Sherlock," John warned, giving his flat mate a sideways smile.

"Yes, yes I know. Lestrade. Where is he?"

"Oh! Right! Umm... Just over here." With a quick smile, the Inspector hurried past the two men.

"Come along, Hamish!" Sherlock called, giving his son a quick smile.

"'Kay, Daddy!" Grinning widely, Hamish released the hold he had on Mycroft's leg and hurried over towards his father.

"'Es, Daddy?"

"Here. Can you go with John for a moment so I can speak to Uncle Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, bending down so he was eye-level with Hamish.

"Oh. 'Es Daddy. Come?"

"Of course. I'll be right behind." Upon seeing the small frown that was forming on the little boy's face, Sherlock quickly tickled the soft skin under Hamish's chin. "Promise."

"Mmm," the little boy giggled. "'Kay, Daddy." With the smile slowly returning to his face, Hamish hurried forward to John, who was holding his hand out for the little boy.

"Come on then, Hame," he said gently, leading Hamish in the direction Lestrade had gone.

A small smile playing in the corner of his lips, Sherlock watched Hamish toddle away with John as he waited for Mycroft.

"Why did you come?" the detective asked as he felt his brother walk up behind him.

"Please," Mycroft scoffed. "Despite what you obviously seem to believe, I am rather fond of Hamish and John. So when I get news that my little brother, his son and closest friend have all been shot at... Well, needless to say, I do want to help in some way."

"Mmm... Fine. You want to help?" Sherlock asked tersely, turning back so he was facing his brother.

"In any way that I can," Mycroft answered, sticking his nose upward indignantly.

"Very well. Answer me one question..." Almost blushing at his own actions, Sherlock leaned forward, not wanting to admit how much he actually trusted his brother.

"Do you know... if he hurt Hamish?" he whispered, staring into Mycroft's eyes as he waited nervously for the answer, daring, if just for a moment, to bare his vulnerability.

Mycroft paused, seeing the serious look in his brother's eyes, and sensing how worried he actually was. "I don't know," he murmured truthfully, gazing back at Sherlock. "I'm sorry."

Backing away, the detective gave a quick nod of his head as he regained his composure. "Thank you." Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began to slowly make his way after Lestrade, Mycroft following closely behind.

Eventually, the two found John, who was now holding Hamish on his hip and Lestrade, all three of whom were waiting in a hallway right out side of a door.

"Daddy!" Hamish exclaimed happily upon seeing his father. He leaned in John's arms, stretching his hands out towards Sherlock.

"Oof! There you go," John groaned, passing Hamish to the detective.

"Hello," Sherlock chuckled, pulling the little boy into his arms.

"Mmm. Hi, Daddy!" Content to be back in his father's arms, Hamish started to talk to Sherlock, babbling happily and with mostly unintelligible words. The detective smiled as he felt Hamish start to play with a lock of his hair.

"Ready?" Lestrade asked, his hand already covering the doorknob.

"Yes," John replied, giving a firm nod of his head.

"Yes... Oh! Really?" Sherlock murmured in reply to his son's babbling, smiling as Hamish nodded earnestly, and continued to talk, completely oblivious to what was happening around him.

With Lestrade holding the door open, John, Sherlock and Mycroft all made their way into the room. Instantly the air seemed thicker, different, and far tenser, though it seemed to go unnoticed by Hamish as he continued to talk happily to Sherlock, gently twirling a lock of the detective's raven curls in between his chubby fingers.

Sherlock quickly glanced around the room. There were two windows, or panels, on opposites sides of the wall. One was black, due to the lights in the room next door being off. The panel on the right, however, was bright with an almost-yellow haze.

"That's him," Lestrade said, almost sounding disgusted as he gestured to the window.

Taking a deep breath, and subconsciously pulling Hamish closer, Sherlock quickly placed a light kiss to the top of the little boy's head before turning his attention to the panel. His eyes fell upon an incredibly untidy, greasy-looking man. Instantly, the detective recognized the details he'd noticed the night before.

Hungry for any new information, Sherlock's eyes quickly darted back and forth over the man's chubby form, analyzing all new details his eyes fell upon. Without even being in the room, he could clearly tell that the man was intoxicated. His balding head was greasy and glistening with sweat. His suit, which at one time had been quite nice, was now wrinkled, stained with sweat and alcohol. He was incredibly chubby, which only added to his unkempt appearance.

Sherlock's eyes fell upon his arms and hands, which were scarred, bruised and cut. It was clear he was a violent individual. It also become clear quite quickly that he had a sort of nervous tick; Sherlock noticed how he would drum three of his fingers against the table and then clench his hand into a fist before repeating the process over and over.

What upset Sherlock the most, though, was that it was clear that drinking was not a new thing for this man. It was obvious to him that he had been drinking long before the orphanage was ever shut down. Which would mean he was most likely drunk, or at least never fully sober) during the time Hamish had spent at the orphanage.

Sherlock could feel his skin crawl at the thought of this man having been with Hamish at one point during his young life. Without even looking around the room, he could tell Lestrade, John and Mycroft were all having identical thoughts, making the same observations he just had. Sherlock had no doubt their faces mimicked the disgusted expression he had on his own.

"What's this guy's name?" John asked quietly, though he continued to stare at the man sitting on the other side of the interrogation window rather than turn towards Lestrade.

"Howard. Howard Schuester."

"'An—" Hamish froze, his conversation suddenly coming to a halt as he heard the name Greg had just said. A deep frown forming on his face, and his eyebrows tugging together, Hamish turned his attention to what everyone else in the room seemed to be looking at.

Sherlock, who had felt the little boy freeze in his arms, turned his attention away from the window.

"Hamish?" he asked, upon seeing the almost confused look on his son's face.

Ignoring his father's question, turned his attention to the window. After several moments, his gaze finally fell upon what everyone had been looking at.

Sherlock could feel what was coming before it happened. He quickly placed his hand to the back of Hamish's head, pulling his gaze away from the window just as the little boy started to scream hysterically.

Heart pounding, Sherlock rushed out of the room, trying to hold Hamish close as the little boy continued to scream and sob.

"No! NO! 'Ease, Daddy! NO! Ouch! Hame ouch! 'Ease, 'ease, Daddy!" the little boy sobbed, flailing his arms around as he tried to grab ahold of Sherlock.

"No, Hamish! Shhh! Please, it's okay, it's okay! You're safe, I've got you. He's not going to hurt you, I promise... Please! It's okay, it's okay!" Sherlock whispered frantically, panic beginning to course through his veins. "I'm sorry, Hamish. I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock quickly hurried into Lestrade's office, taking no notice of the stares he received from the workers around him, and taking no notice as, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft all hurried in behind him, a mixture of fear, confusion and sadness in their expressions.

"Hamish. Hamish, please. Look at me," Sherlock said gently, trying to sound calmer than he felt. He quickly knelt down on the ground, and pressed Hamish close to chest.

"Daddy!" the little boy sobbed, pressing his small body as close to Sherlock as he could possibly get. Sobs shaking his body, Hamish wrapped his arms around the detective's neck, clearly terrified that he was going to be taken away from his father.

Wanting to give his son reassurance that he was safe and was not going to be taken away, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hamish's shaking body, and began to gently rock back and forth and John, Lestrade and Mycroft watched on helplessly.

"Shhh, Hamish, please listen to me. You're safe... You're safe, I promise. I have you. I will not let him hurt you. Please—Just please don't cry. It's okay, shhh..." Keeping Hamish pressed close, the detective slowly rubbed his hand up and down the little boy's shaking back, hoping to console him in some way.

Sniffling violently, and with sobs still coursing through his tiny body, Hamish pulled away just enough so he could see Sherlock's face.

"N—no bye D—Daddy?" he cried, tears streaming down his face.

"No," Sherlock said firmly, feeling a constricting pain in his chest as he stared down at his son's tear-stained face. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here... See? I'm right here... It's okay. I've got you, I promise. I'm so sorry, Hamish..." he murmured, all of his thoughts running together into one. "Please... Shhhh..."

"H—Hame get ouch," Hamish cried, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder. He freed one of his hands from the detective's grasp and pointed to himself. Unable to see what the little boy was talking about, Sherlock quickly pulled back. He felt his breath stop as he saw that Hamish was pointing to his collarbone... His tiny finger was positioned just over the small scar.

"Hamish," Sherlock breathed, struggling to find his breath. "Did—Did that man give you that scar?"

Hamish sniffled loudly, before giving a sad nod of his head. "'Es, Daddy. Hame get ouch," he cried, more tears trickling down his face.

Sherlock felt a wave of emotions crash over him at once. Immense guilt, incredible sadness, and an uncontrollable hatred burning his stomach. He thought of how he'd once wanted to hurt the person who had given Hamish his scar. And now here was—sitting no less than fifty yards away from him.

Feeling anger boiling through his veins, Sherlock's eyes quickly flicked to Mycroft. Without a word being shared between the two, each knew what the other wanted. With a firm nod of his head, lips turned up into an angry snarl, Mycroft quickly hurried out of the office and disappeared down the hallway.

Pushing aside all else, Sherlock focused his attention on Hamish. He stood up, pulling the little boy into his arms.

"Shh," he soothed. "I'm here... It's okay now... You're safe. I'm here... Shh..." He began to gently sway back and forth, running his hand up and down Hamish's back. "Please... It's all okay. I'm right here, and I promise I'm not going anywhere. You're safe."

Eventually, after realizing that he was safe and was not going to be taken away from Sherlock, Hamish calmed down considerably, though he refused to let go of his father. A small fistful of the detective's shirt was still clutched tightly in his hand.

"Shhh," the detective continued to whisper, swaying back and forth. He had started to press tender kisses to Hamish's hair and cheeks in a sign of reassurance. "It's okay," he murmured, pressing his lips to his son's cheek.

"Daddy," the little boy whispered sadly, his grip around the detective tightening.

"I'm here, Hamish... I'm here..."

"All done," came the voice of Mycroft. Sherlock as well as Lestrade and John all turned to see the detective's brother coming back into the office, a grim look on his face. "Don't worry. I've had him... Taken care of."

"Good. I'll come later. Thank you," Sherlock thanked, feeling another surge of anger burn in his stomach. He pushed it away, though, as he felt Hamish bury his face in his neck.

"Home, Daddy?" he asked sadly, sniffling as he gazed up at Sherlock from where he was resting.

"Of course," the detective replied gently, brushing some of the little boy's curls off of his face. "Let's go home."

 

During the car ride home, John had decided he would spend a few more hours at Mary's, allowing Sherlock and Hamish to have some time alone.

"Ni-bye, John," Hamish said quietly, giving the doctor a sad wave as he stepped out of the car.

"Bye, bye Hamish," John replied gently, leaning back in the cab to give the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"'Kay..."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock gave his friend a grateful smile. "I really appreciate it."

The doctor simply replied with a reassuring smile before silently slipping away into Mary's flat.

Hamish spent the rest of the cab ride home snuggled tightly against Sherlock's chest, one hand gripping a fistful of the detective's shirt, the other wrapped safely in his father's hand.

"Almost there," Sherlock murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Hamish's curls.

By the time they finally did reach the flat, Hamish was practically asleep in Sherlock's arms.

He quickly hurried inside and knelt down on the floor, placing Hamish into a standing position.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, holding the little boy on either side of his arms.

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish replied sadly, tiredly pressing a fist into his eyes.

"I need you to listen to me for a moment, okay?"

"Mmm-hmm... 'Kay, Daddy." Blinking slowly, Hamish stared up into his father's grey eyes, absentmindedly grabbing ahold of some of Sherlock's sleeve.

"Hamish," Sherlock began gently. "I will never—never—let anyone hurt you. And I will never allow anyone to take you away from me. I promise... I will keep you safe. And no one is ever going to be able to hurt you again." With sad eyes, Sherlock gently pressed his fingertips to the small scar on Hamish's collarbone. "No one," he repeated quietly. "I promise... You will always be safe with me."

Eyes brightening ever so slightly, Hamish hurried forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing his face into the smooth skin. "'Ove, Daddy. Hame 'ove." With tender hands, the little boy slowly draped one of his arms of Sherlock's shoulder. "'Ove," he whispered, splaying his chubby fingers across the scar on his father's shoulder blade.

"I love you, too, Hamish... So much." The detective felt a wave of relief wash over him as he felt Hamish smile against his skin. Moving slowly, the little boy took his hand, and pressed his chubby fingers to his lips, giving them a kiss.

"'Etter," he whispered as he pressed his fingers back to Sherlock's shoulder, pressing a "kiss' to his father's scar.

"An' 'etter," he murmured again, gently tugging on the detective's hair. He pointed to his own scar on his collarbone.

Sherlock smiled, amazed once again by his son. Gazing lovingly at Hamish, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the little boy's small scar. "All better," he murmured against the skin.

"'Es, Daddy. No ouch." Now, almost as if he was hoping to reassure his father, Hamish gave Sherlock a reassuring smile before wrapping his arms around the detective's neck and bending up to press an incredibly gentle kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

"'Ove, Daddy... 'Etter," he whispered against the detective's skin.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, a fluttering warmth flooding his entire body. "All better... Thank you, Hamish."

"Mmm," the little boy hummed in response, a sweet smile turning up the corners of his lips. He leaned forward, resting his weight against Sherlock. With a single yawn and one more quick kiss on the cheek, Hamish reached up, draping his arms around his father's shoulders.

"'Ove, Daddy," he whispered once more, before quickly falling asleep.

"I love you, too," Sherlock murmured, smiling as he felt Hamish's hand curl against his shoulder blade, resting just over his scar. "We're going to be okay... All better."


	23. Scared?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So this is just a cute little fluffy chapter for the end of the weekend. Hope you all enjoy it! Thanks! =)

Hamish continued to sleep soundly in Sherlock's arms, his small body fitting perfectly against the detective's chest, with his head tucked under his father's chin. Sherlock slowly paced around the flat, tenderly stroking his fingertips over Hamish's curls as he walked, listening to the little boy's gentle breathing.

Shortly after, John returned to the flat, with Mary following closely behind. Minding Hamish's sleeping form, Sherlock quickly sat down in his chair, allowing the doctor and his fiancé to share the couch.

"Are you all right?" he asked Mary quietly, hoping he sounded reassuring. Although he was quite fond of Mary (which he would never admit to John), he never really knew how to start a conversation around her.

"Much better now. Thank you," she said, giving the detective a small smile. "How's he?" She gave a quick nod of her head to Hamish. "Oh. John told me," she added as explanation.

"He's been sleeping practically since we got home, but he was clearly very shaken by the whole situation." Sherlock paused, taking a moment to quickly run his hand through Hamish's curls. "I think he'll be okay, but I fear it may take him a little while fully adjust back."

"Poor little guy," John inputted sadly, gazing at the sleeping boy in his friend's arms. "Has to be hard..."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured in response, staring down at his son's sleeping form. His thoughts were interrupted, though, by the sound of the front door opening, and someone bustling up the stairs.

Brows pulled together in confusion, both John and Sherlock stared at the doorway, waiting to see who had entered the flat.

"Not to worry," came the drawling voice of Mycroft. "It's just me." His impeccably dressed form slowly entered the flat.

"Shh," Sherlock shushed quietly, nodding towards Hamish.

"Oh! Right. My apologizes. I just came by to reassure you that..." His eyes quickly darted towards Mary, who was gazing curiously at him. "Umm... That everything has been successfully taken care of... And discarded, shall we say?"

"Excellent," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. "Thank you."

"Well. I'd best be off, then. I've a—"

"You could stay," John interrupted quickly, glancing at Sherlock. "I mean, I know it would mean a lot to Hamish if he woke up and Uncle Mycroft was here." The doctor quickly looked the between the two brothers, a small smile forming on his face.

Mycroft paused, peering at his brother. "Very well. If you insist." Umbrella in hand, he slowly meandered towards the doorway to kitchen, and leaned against the frame. Almost immediately after, the doorbell rang.

"Ah," said John, shooting Sherlock an apologetic glance. "That'll probably be—"

"Hello, guys!" came the cheerful voice of Molly. "Umm... Listen, I could use a little help—"

"Don't worry, John, I've got it!" Lestrade called.

"John," Sherlock whined, shooting the doctor a look. "Did you invite everyone?"

"No," the doctor chuckled, standing up. "Only Molly. Your brother and Lestrade are here on their own accord." He hurried away down the stairs to help Molly, who was chatting happily with Greg.

More for Molly than anything else, Sherlock slowly stood up and made his way to the landing of the stairs, smiling in spite of himself as he saw her heavily pregnant form come waddling around the corner, flanked on either side by both John and Lestrade.

"Oh! Hello there," the pathologist called cheerfully upon seeing the detective at the top of the stairs. She slowly made her way up the rest of the stairs, gratefully thanking the doctor and the Inspector for their help.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock said quietly, bending down to press a quick kiss to her cheek. "Everything is well, I presume?"

The pathologist smiled, giving the detective a knowing look. "Yes, Sherlock. We're both doing just fine." Sherlock chuckled to himself as Molly gave him a reassuring pat on his shoulder and then made her way into the flat, cradling her stomach as she walked.

"Here. You can take John's chair," Sherlock said, nodding as he sat down in his own.

"Well! It's just like a party, isn't it?" Lestrade said cheerfully, once everyone was properly situated around the tiny flat. "Oh! Sorry," he added quickly, upon receiving a glare from Sherlock.

The flat was suddenly filled with an awkward silence, during which everyone sat around staring at each other, each waiting for someone else to start the conversation, though all of this went unnoticed by Sherlock, as he was preoccupied with playing with Hamish's hair.

"Well, umm," John started awkwardly, standing up off the couch. "I don't know about anyone else, but I could certainly do with a drink, hmm? It's been a pretty crazy day for all of us." With a small smile, the doctor quickly scanned around the room, eyebrows raised in question.

"I would love a drink," Lestrade sighed happily, glad to be relieved of the awkward silence.

"Okay. One. Mary?"

"A drink would be lovely, thank you," she said gratefully, reaching up to give John's hand a loving squeeze. John gave her a reassuring smile before turning his attention back to the guests.

"Mycroft?"

"No thank you," he answered, with a small smile as he slowly twirled the umbrella in his hand.

John nodded, and started to make his way towards the kitchen. "Sherlock?" he asked quietly, turning back towards his flatmate.

"Hmm? What?" the detective asked, pulling his attention away from Hamish.

"A drink," John chuckled. "Do you want a drink?"

"Oh. No, thank you John."

"Of course." With a small nod of his head, the doctor hurried away into the kitchen to grab the beverages for everyone.

Beginning to relax slightly, Mary and Molly started to chat with each other as Mycroft and Lestrade listened in, waiting for John to return with the drinks.

"So when are you due?" Mary asked, leaning back into the soft cushions of the couch.

"About a month and a half," the pathologist answered happily, absentmindedly rubbing her hand across her stomach.

"Are you excited?"

"To be honest," Molly chuckled nervously. "I'm absolutely terrified. I mean, I'm excited, of course," she added quickly. "Just a little bit nervous. I mean I have no idea what to expect."

"Of course," Mary answered reassuringly, giving the pathologist a small smile.

"Right!" John called, exiting the kitchen with bottles in his hand. "I hope this is all right for everyone?"

"Wonderful," Lestrade said happily, hurrying forward to take one of the drinks out of John's hands.

Chuckling, the doctor quickly dolled out the rest of the bottles, saving one for himself.

Drinks in hand, and getting comfortably situated around the flat, everyone started to chat lightly with each other, all trying to talk away the worry and panic of earlier that day.

Worried that the increasingly loud noise would wake Hamish, Sherlock stood up, excusing himself from the room, and made his way into the kitchen. Upon feeling the movement, though, and having already been slightly jostled by the loud chattering, Hamish shifted in the detective's arms, eyes slowly blinking open.

"Mmm," he hummed tiredly, eyebrows pulling together in confusion as he heard the loud noise of talking coming from the usually quiet flat.

"What loud, Daddy?" he asked, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder in an effort to escape the offensive sound.

The detective chuckled quietly, angling himself so Hamish could better gaze around the flat. "Well," he murmured quietly, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's hair, "It appears we have a few guests. See? Uncle Mycroft is here... And Aunt Molly and Mary."

Still tired and now very confused, Hamish pulled away from Sherlock's shoulder, turning to gaze around the flat. He gasped quietly, jumping in his father's arms as he saw all of the people crowding around his small home.

"What doing, Daddy?" he asked quietly, gripping onto the detective's shirt.

"They all came to check in on you," Sherlock answered quietly, giving Hamish a reassuring pat on the back. "It's okay, love." He leaned closer to the little boy's ear, whispering so only he could hear. "I'm right here."

Hamish nodded slowly, releasing his grip on the detective's shirt. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, relaxing into Sherlock's arms as he gazed around the flat. "Help Hame?"

"Yes," inputted Molly, hoping to lift the little boy's spirits. "We all came to help you."

Clearly noticing her for the first time, Hamish gasped happily at the sight of Molly, a large smile spreading across his face as he leaned toward her in Sherlock's arms. "Aunt Molly!" he cried happily, stretching his hands towards her.

Not wanting her to have to move, Sherlock hurried over to where Molly was seated and gently passed Hamish over before moving to his own chair. He sat down, crossing his legs as he gazed fondly at his son's happiness, glad that there was a distraction to take the little boy's mind off of the earlier events of that day.

"Molly," the little boy sighed, wrapping his arms around the pathologist's neck in a tight hug. "Oh," he gasped in wonder upon noticing her larger belly for the first time.

"Daddy!" he called, turning around to stare, wide-eyed at his father. Mouth hanging open in awe, Hamish tenderly pressed his hand to Molly's stomach, squealing happily as he felt the baby move under his touch. "Wow, Daddy!" he said, grinning widely at his father.

Sherlock smiled lovingly, chuckling at his son's wonder. "I know," he said enthusiastically. "It's amazing, isn't it? And just think—soon, we'll be able to see the baby you're feeling right now."

Though it didn't seem possible, Hamish's eyes widened even more, and he glanced with amazement between Molly's stomach and Sherlock.

"Really, Daddy?" he gasped, placing another hand to the pathologist's belly.

"Mmm-hmm," Molly hummed happily, sharing a quick smile with Sherlock.

"Wow..." Hamish sighed, smiling as he felt another kick under his palms.

"Baby soon, Daddy?"

"Yes," the detective answered quietly, a smile playing on his lips as he watched Hamish. "We'll get to see Molly's baby soon."

Smiling in amazement, the little boy continued to sit with Molly, giggling happily each time he felt the baby move. 

 

Eventually, after having noticed Mycroft, Hamish practically bounced out of Molly's lap, to be caught just in time by Sherlock, before quickly toddling over to his uncle.

"Unk My!" he cried happily, reaching his arms up in expectation. Chuckling to himself, and smiling smugly at the eye roll Sherlock had just given him, Mycroft bent down, lifting the little boy into his arms.

"Why, hello," he greeted happily, allowing Hamish to closely examine his tie, which by now was just a ritual for the two.

"Molly baby!" the little boy informed excitedly, taking is attention away from the tie so he could point at Molly.

"Yes, I know," Mycroft chuckled. "So I've heard." He smiled as Hamish dutifully resumed the examination of his tie, carefully running his chubby finger over the bumpy fabric. He decided to say nothing about the small smile he saw creeping onto his brother's face. 

 

After having been passed around to everyone in the room, and talking at length with each one, Hamish was seated in Sherlock's lap once again, playing happily with the detective's fingers as the adults chatted happily, the stress of that day now almost completely gone.

Laughing at something John had just said, Molly glanced towards the clock on the wall. "Well," she sighed contently, "I think it's time for me to be off." Smiling, she pushed herself upward, struggling slightly as she tried to pull herself out of the doctor's deep chair.

"Help, Daddy!" Hamish cried frantically, quickly sliding off of Sherlock's lap as he saw Molly struggling to get out of the chair.

Smiling at his son, the detective quickly stood up and reached his hands forward, helping the pathologist to her feet.

"Ohh. Thank you," she sighed gratefully.

"Here, Aunt Molly. Hame help." Smiling once again, now that he was sure Molly was fine, Hamish reached up, wrapping his chubby hand around several of Molly's slender fingers. "Hame help at stairs."

"Oh!" the pathologist exclaimed happily, giving the little boy a warm smile. "Thank you very much, Hamish." She quickly glanced back to share quick smile with Sherlock. "Lead the way."

Smiling proudly, and keeping his hand wrapped firmly around Molly's fingers, Hamish walked toddled forward towards the stairs, tenderly leading Molly all the way.

"Come, Daddy?" he asked, pausing to turn back towards his father.

Unable to contain his happiness, Sherlock grinned. "Of course." Smiling happily, the detective moved forward, trailing slowly behind Hamish as he led Molly to the stairs, not even caring as he saw John take out his phone and start to film them.

"Oh," Hamish said, frowning as he reached the landing, realizing he would have to go down both flights by himself.

"Umm..." A worried look on his face, he turned back to Sherlock. "Daddy?"

Chuckling, the detective bent down, and lifted Hamish into his arms. "Here. How about we both help Aunt Molly down the stairs? You can keep ahold of her hand, and I'll walk us down, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish answered seriously, nodding in agreement.

Glad to be back in his father's arms, the little boy relaxed, that proud smile returning to his face as he kept a firm hold of Molly's hand while they slowly made their way down the stairs.

"Thank you so much, Hamish," Molly said happily, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. "I'm not sure I could have done it without you." She smiled warmly, giving the little boy a quick wink.

Giggling, Hamish turned his Sherlock's arms, and pressed his face into the detective's shoulder.

"'Es, Molly," he replied quietly, turning so he could just see her out of the corner of his eye.

Molly chuckled, leaning forward to give the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "Bye-bye, Hamish. I'll see you later, okay?"

"B-bye," the little boy giggled happily, giving her a sweet smile before pressing a tender kiss to her fingers, which were still held in his hand."Bye, Baby!" he called, leaning forward towards Molly's stomach.

Chuckling happily, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Molly's cheek. "Bye, Molly. Take care."

Smiling warmly, she gave the detective a quick squeeze on the arm before hurrying out the door.

As the door shut behind her, Sherlock turned to Hamish, who was still giggling madly in his arms.

"What?" he asked comically, laughing as the little boy pressed his face into his shoulder once again. "What's so funny, hmm?" Grinning, he gently tickled Hamish's neck.

"Daddy!" the little boy laughed, shoving the detective's hands away. "Silly... Daddy?"

"Yes?" Sherlock chuckled, already making his way up the stairs.

"S'cret?" Hamish asked hopefully, wrapping his chubby hand around the detective's collar.

"A secret?" Sherlock gasped. "Why, I'd love to hear a secret!" Smiling, he paused on the steps, leaning his head down towards Hamish.

Grinning widely, the little boy leaned up, and slowly brushed away some of his father's curls before pressing his lips to his ear and whispering bashfully, "Molly bat'um'ful."

Giggling madly, Hamish pulled away, and buried his face in Sherlock's shirt, laughing against the detective's skin.

Sherlock stared down at his son with a loving gaze before pulling the little boy close. "Not to worry," he murmured. "Your secret is safe with me." Chuckling, he pressed a tender kiss to the top of Hamish's curls, continuing his way up to the flat, with the little boy giggling all the way. 

 

After Molly, Mycroft was the next to leave, giving a quick goodbye hug and kiss to Hamish before politely excusing himself. Next was Lestrade, who waved a quick goodbye to everyone before hurrying out of the flat. Mary and John remained behind for a little while, sitting snuggled together on the couch as the daylight quickly slipped away outside.

"Well," the doctor sighed eventually, standing up to walk over to Hamish, who was seated on the ground, desperately trying to pull his shirt off. "Hey," John chuckled, bending down. He quickly tugged the shirt off, tossing it over the arm of his chair. "Well, Mary and I are headed off, little man. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Oh," Hamish said sadly, a small frown forming on his face. "John bye-bye?"

The doctor smiled sadly before pulling the little boy into a tight hug. "Yeah, I'm going bye-bye. But it's okay! I'll be back tomorrow, I promise." Smiling reassuringly, John leaned back so he could see Hamish. "Now. Can I have a goodnight kiss?"

Despite his sadness at having John leave, a small smile tugged at the corners of Hamish's lips. "'Es, John," he whispered happily, leaning up towards the doctor's face. Smiling sweetly, the little boy pressed a gentle kiss to John's cheek before giving him a tight hug. "Nigh', night, John," he whispered against the doctor's jumper.

"Goodnight, little man," John replied quietly, quickly kissing Hamish on the forehead. He stood up, pulling the little boy into his arms. "Now can you say bye-bye to Mary?"

"B-bye, Mary," Hamish replied quietly, giving a tiny wave of his hand and a small smile.

"Good man." Smiling fondly, John placed Hamish back on the ground just as Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, a pair of small pajama bottoms in hand.

"Did you already say goodbye to John?" he asked, setting the fabric on the back of the doctor's chair.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied happily. He hurried over towards Sherlock, grabbing a fistful of the detective's pants in his hand. Eyes drooping slightly, the small boy leaned against his father's leg before giving another little wave to John and Mary as the couple slowly made their way to the stairs.

Smiling down at Hamish, Sherlock gave Mary a quick kiss on the cheek and said his goodbye's to John before the two silently slipped out of the flat.

"Well!" the detective exclaimed quietly, turning his attention back to Hamish, who was now leaning fully against his leg as he yawned widely. "That was rather fun, I suppose." Smiling as he felt the little boy nod feebly against his leg, Sherlock bent down and quickly pulled the little boy into his arms. "Time for bed, hmm?" he whispered.

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly, nodding against his father's shoulder.

A small small on his lips, Sherlock slowly made his way to his bedroom, gently bouncing the little boy in his arms. He quickly changed Hamish's nappy, not even bothering with the pajama bottoms, and then started to place the little boy in his crib.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, tapping on Sherlock's fingers as he stared up at him with tired eyes.

"Yes?" the detective asked gently, pulling his son's small form back into his arms.

"Umm... Ask?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered gently, brushing away some of the little boy's curls.

Hamish paused, looking around the room as if he was worried about what he wanted to ask. "Umm... Daddy have scared?"he whispered quietly, eyes finally coming back to the detective's face.

Sherlock paused, slightly taken aback by his son's question. "Do I ever get scared?" he asked, gazing down at the little boy.

Hamish nodded tiredly, leaning forward to rest his head against his father's shoulder. "'Es, Daddy," he whispered, moving his hand to the base of Sherlock's neck.

Taking a deep breath, the detective leaned back in the bed, allowing his back to rest against the pillows and the headrest. "Yes," he murmured gently, peering down at Hamish. "I've been scared before. I got scared just today... I was scared when we were shot at, and I was afraid you might get hurt..." He paused, looking down at his son, who seemed to be mulling over his words. "Why, Hamish?" he prompted gently, giving the little boy a reassuring rub over his back.

"Hame had scared," Hamish replied quietly, taking a moment to gaze up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"You got scared?" the detective whispered sadly, staring down at Hamish, who nodded against his chest.

"'Es, Daddy... Ouch... An'... Hame to know scared silly." Almost as if he seemed embarrassed by what he'd just said, the little boy quickly shoved his face into the detective's shirt, curling himself inward.

"No," Sherlock sighed sadly, pressing his hand to the back of Hamish's head. "Hamish?" he asked gently, urging the little boy to look at him. "Hamish, please look at me..."

Sniffling, almost as if he was going to cry, Hamish slowly pulled his face away from Sherlock's chest, and gazed up at the detective with sad, embarrassed eyes.

Smiling sadly, Sherlock placed one hand to the side of his son's face. "Hamish," he started, staring into the little boy's deep green eyes. "Being scared is never something to be embarrassed about, all right? It's perfectly normal. Everyone feels scared—even me. I promise, it's perfectly all right to feel scared... And you had every right to feel the way you did today. There is nothing wrong with that, okay?" The detective smiled reassuringly, brushing his thumb across the top of the little boy's cheek.

Taking a deep breath, Hamish nodded against his father's hand, leaning into the touch. "'Es, Daddy... So... Daddy have scared?"

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock pulled Hamish's sleepy form into his lap. "Yes. I get scared. In fact... Would you like to hear my secret?" he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper as he leaned in closer to Hamish.

"Oh," the little boy sighed. "'Es, Daddy." Eyes wide with anticipation, Hamish leaned forward, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

Gazing fondly at his son, Sherlock bent down, pressing his lips to the small boy's ear. "Once, not too long ago, John and I were on a case together, investigating a top-secret facility..." He paused, taking a moment to playfully tickle Hamish's stomach. "And guess what scared us?" The detective leaned back so he could see Hamish's face.

"What, Daddy?" the little boy whispered, his hands grabbing a fistful of the detective's shirt in anticipation.

Lips turned up in a half smile, Sherlock widened his eyes. "We both got scared out of our wits... By a dog!" he cried, quickly leaning forward to tickle Hamish's belly again.

"Doggy?" the little boy cried happily, laughing as he fell onto the bed. "Really, Daddy?" he giggled, gazing happily up Sherlock from where he was lying on the bed.

"Really," the detective said, bending down to blow his lips against Hamish's smooth skin. "But—and you can't tell John I said this... He was more scared of the dog than I was!"

Grinning, Hamish continued to laugh happily, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's fingers. "So scared 'kay?" he sighed happily, trying to catch his breath.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, smiling down at Hamish as he wrapped his hands around the little boy's fingers. "It's perfectly okay to be scared." Taking a deep breath, he pulled back before quickly bending down again to press several quick kisses to Hamish's cheeks and hair. "And don't you forget it!" he chuckled, pulling the little boy into his arms.

"Mmm," he sighed contently, closing his eyes as he caught his breath. "Ta, Daddy.'Ove," he said quietly, a small smile on his lips. "Nigh, night."

Gazing lovingly at the little boy in his arms, Sherlock slowly bent down and pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's brow. "Goodnight, Hamish... I love you, too."

With one last, deep sigh, the little boy fell asleep, that small smile still on his lips.

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock slowly moved to the other side of the bed and gently lowered Hamish's sleeping form into the crib. "Goodnight," he whispered again, running his thumb over the little boy's cheek. "Sleep well..."


	24. Napping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Okay, so I just finished this like two minutes ago (its 1:22 a.m.), so, per the norm., there are probably going to be lots of errors! Please excuse! Thank you so much!

Hamish recovered quickly, soon returning to his normal self, with the scare of the shooter now over. However, both John and Sherlock had taken notice of the way the small boy had started to cling to the detective more frequently than usual, refusing to go anywhere without his father close by. And though Sherlock felt he should be worried, he secretly enjoyed having Hamish close with him.

Sherlock was seated in the kitchen, staring into his microscope with concentrated eyes. Hamish, whose favorite past time was watching his father think, was standing on the kitchen floor, one hand gripping the fabric of Sherlock's trousers as he stood, body wobbling slightly. "Mmm," he hummed to himself, a small smile playing on his lips as he heard the detective start to mumble to himself. With a content little sigh, Hamish leaned forward, pressing his cheek against Sherlock's leg.

"Could it be poison?" John called from the living room. He was seated at the table, eyes quickly skimming over the screen of his laptop. "I mean it fits everything Lestrade told us about him... The only question is, what kind of—"

"Of course!" Sherlock cried triumphantly, quickly pushing away his chair as stood up. "Tetrodotoxin! It all makes perfect sense now; how could I possibly have missed—Oh! Sorry, Hamish," he added hurriedly, realizing he'd knocked the little boy over as he turned. He quickly bent down and pulled the little boy, who was frowning as he sat on the ground, onto his hip. "Sorry," he apologized again, pressing a gentle kiss to his son's boy's temple.

Though momentarily upset at having been knocked over, Hamish was now smiling once again, giggling happily as Sherlock swung him around the room.

"Ohhh," the detective sighed contently, happy that the case was finally solved, seeing as he'd been working on it for three days straight, with little to no sleep.

Bouncing Hamish on his hip, Sherlock meandered out of the kitchen, a smug grin on his face. "Really, John," he sighed, giving the doctor a sideways glance. "You of all people should have known that... Tetrodotoxin. Simple." Humming happily to himself, the detective sat down behind John, moving Hamish to his knee as he settled into his chair. "Yes," he told the little boy earnestly, giving him a small wink. "John most certainly should have known that," he whispered, brushing some of the little boy's curls out of his eyes.

"No, Daddy!" Hamish giggled happily, grabbing ahold of the hand Sherlock had wrapped around his middle. "John good!"

Smiling fondly at his son, the detective gave a small nod of his head, moving his hand so he was covering Hamish's fingers with his own. "I supposed I should apologize now, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy. Oh no make John said."

"Otherwise I'll make John sad?" Sherlock chuckled, giving a gentle squeeze of his hand. "Well," he sighed, feigning reluctance. "Yes... I guess I'll apologize so John won't be sad. And because that's what good boys do, right?"

"'Es! Right, Daddy," the little boy said cheerfully, giving a firm nod of his head as he smiled at John. "Good 'ay sorry."

"Very good," Sherlock praised. He took a deep breath, giving Hamish an over-exaggerated worried look, before turning back to John, who was now grinning with smugness.

"I'm ready," he chanted in a sing-song voice, raising his eyebrows at his flat mate.

"Fine. I'm sorry," Sherlock sighed dramatically, giving John a quick smile. He turned back to Hamish and raised his eyebrows, as if for reassurance. "Good?" he asked quietly, lips quirking up in a smile.

Hamish grinned and scooted forward in his father's lap. "Good, Daddy... Ver' 'etter." With a small sigh, the little boy pressed his face into Sherlock's chest and, as best he could, wrapped his chubby arms around the detective's waist.

"Very better," the detective repeated quietly, pulling his son's small body even closer to his chest. He tucked the little boy's head under his chin and turned back to exchange a smile with John. "Could you call Lestrade?" he mouthed quietly.

"'Course." With a quick nod and a smile, the doctor stood up, closing his laptop as he pulled out his phone. He hurried into the kitchen, already talking to the Inspector. "Greg. Yes, hello. Yep! Just now actually..." His voice slowly trailed off as he entered the kitchen.

"Mmm," Sherlock sighed, leaning back in the chair as he allowed Hamish to bend back, using his arms as a backrest for the little boy. Three days of no sleep finally catching up with him, the detective yawned widely, resting into the comfort chair as he felt the last bit of adrenaline leave his body.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked worriedly, reaching forward to rest his chubby fingers against the detective's lips. "Sleepy tie at Daddy?" he asked gently, fingernails scraping against his father's skin as his fingers curled.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response, gazing down at his son with tired eyes. "Yes. Sleeping time for Daddy." He gave Hamish a small smile, quickly brushing his fingertips across the small boy's forehead. With a deep sigh, he stood up, setting Hamish on the ground just as John re-emerged from the kitchen.

"All good," the doctor said cheerfully, pausing as he saw how exhausted-looking his flat mate had suddenly become. He chuckled to himself, rolling his eyes as he moved forward towards the father and son. "I told you it would catch up with you," he said smugly, bending down so he was at eye-level with Hamish. "Hey, little man. Daddy needs to go and take a quick sleep now, okay? So how about you come with me, and we let Daddy take a rest, hmm?"

Instantly, the smile left Hamish's face, to be quickly replaced by a deep frown. He wrapped one chubby arm around the detective's leg, reaching up with his other hand to grab ahold of Sherlock's hand. "No 'ease, John," he said firmly, grip tightening around his father's hand. "Stay Daddy. At sleepy."

"It's all right, John," Sherlock reassured gently, giving Hamish's fingers a small squeeze. "He can stay with me for a little while. I'll be okay."

John sighed, giving his friend another eye roll. "All right," he said skeptically, shrugging as he smiled down at Hamish, who had clearly relaxed, and was now leaning against Sherlock's leg, his own chubby fingers held loosely in the detective's.

"Nigh' night, Daddy at John," he said quietly, tugging at his father's fingers.

"Right. Goodnight, John," Sherlock said quietly, chuckling down at Hamish before giving John a thankful smile. "Good?" he murmured, gazing down at the little boy.

"Good."

Yawning again, and with Hamish's hand held in his own, Sherlock walked forward, making his way to his room.

"Could you come in and check on him?" he whispered to John as he walked by. "Just in case—you know, I'm not up yet?"

"'Course," the doctor replied, giving his flat mate a light pat on the shoulder. "Now go sleep!" he said firmly. "Doctor's orders."

Sherlock huffed a chuckle, rolling his eyes. "Right. Well, then. Come on Hamish," he added gently, tugging the little boy forward.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy."

John chuckled as he watched a very tired Sherlock disappear into his room with Hamish, who had started to chatter happily to himself as he toddled forward.

"Ohh," the detective sighed tiredly as he collapsed onto the bed, the hand holding Hamish's still hanging off the bed.

"Uhh... Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly, tugging on Sherlock's hand, as he was still on the floor.

"Right. Sorry, Hamish... Up we go." With a soft groan, the detective pulled Hamish onto the bed, gently placing his small body to his left. "There we go," he murmured, rolling onto his side and settling comfortably into the warm bed. "There we go..."

"Daddy 'kay?" Hamish asked worriedly, pulling the detective's hand into his lap.  
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, I'm okay, Hamish," Sherlock reassured gently, opening his eyes to give the little boy a reassuring smile. "Just tired, that's all... It's okay." He quickly brushed his free hand over Hamish's cheek.

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief. "Good, Daddy... 'Kay... Nigh' nigh'. S'eepy." With a tiny smile on his lips, Hamish leaned forward and haphazardly pressed his hands to Sherlock's face. He placed one of his hands over the detective's eyes. "Nigh, Daddy..."

Finding the feel of Hamish's chubby fingers against his face soothing, the corner of his lips turned up in a smile as his eyes slid shut. "Mmm." Before falling asleep, Sherlock gently wrapped his long fingers around his son's chubby stomach, pulling the little boy closer to his torso.

Staring peacefully at his now-sleeping father, Hamish removed his hands from Sherlock's face, and bent back, resting comfortably in the detective's touch. He scooted forward, resting his head against Sherlock's waist, as he absentmindedly traced the detective's fingers. His sea-green eyes slowly meandered around the room as his head moved up and down with the gentle rise and fall of his father's breathing.

 

 

 

"Hamish?" John whispered quietly, opening the door to Sherlock's room. He slowly entered the room, and couldn't help but pause and smile at the sight of his flat mate, sleeping soundly on the bed, with Hamish's tiny form lying across his side.

"'Es, John?" the little boy asked quietly, opening his eyes to gaze at the doctor from where he was resting.

"Hey, buddy. Listen, can I take you with me for a moment? I need your help with something," he whispered, hurrying over to the bed.

"Hame help?" Hamish asked quietly, lifting his head to gaze at John.

"Yes," the doctor murmured, smiling at the little boy.

"'Eave, Daddy," he stated, frowning as he realized what this would require.

"Only for a little while," John reassured him with a small smile.

Hamish contemplated for a moment, his grip tightening around Sherlock's limp fingers. "'Kay, John," he whispered eventually, reaching his free arm up towards John in expectation.

"Good man," the doctor praised. Moving slowly and carefully, so as not to wake Sherlock, though he knew he wouldn't, John slowly pulled Hamish from the detective's grasp, struggling slightly to pry his fingers from around the little boy's middle.

"There," he sighed now that Hamish was in his arms. "Come on, then." Bouncing the little boy, John hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind him. "All right, we have to go down to Mrs. Hudson's flat, okay?" he asked, giving the little boy a light pat on the back.

"Nana?" Hamish asked, now excited about the prospect of getting to see the landlady.

"Yep! I need your help with a decision, okay?"

"Oh... 'Es, John! Hame help!" Grinning, Hamish clapped his hands together once, bouncing in the doctor's arms.

"Excellent." Chuckling at the little boy's excitement, John hurried down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, where the landlady was humming to herself as she danced around the kitchen. "Oh!" she called happily, rushing forward to give Hamish a quick kiss on the cheek. "Hello, love!"

"Nana!" the little boy called happily, bending forward in John's arms to give her a tight hug around the neck. "He'o! Hame help?"

"Oh! Yes. Right over there, darling," Mrs. Hudson replied cheerfully, nodding to her sitting room. "I've got to finish up cooking in here, but John can take you over there."

Flashing the landlady a smile, John made his way into the sitting room where several rolls of tape, many yards of wrapping paper, and lots of un-wrapped items were strewn across the floor.

"John... What doing?" Hamish asked curiously, gazing down at the mess around the doctor's feet.

John laughed, giving the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "Well this is what I need your help with," he explained, sitting down on the ground. He placed Hamish in his lap, chuckling as he saw how overwhelmed the little boy clearly was.

"John?" he whispered, gripping tightly onto the doctor's jumper as his eyes scanned the mess. "No 'ease Hame help," he said firmly, shaking his head.

"No, no, no," John laughed, smiling at the boy in his lap. "Not with cleaning the mess up. I need help with this." Keeping Hamish close to his chest, John scooted forward towards the table where many items were resting upon the surface. He pulled two, a coffee mug and a small pop-out magnifying glass, off of the table and onto the floor, before turning his attention back to Hamish.

"Hamish," he began gently, pulling the little boy's attention back to him. "Tomorrow is Daddy's birthday, okay? And you need to give him a gift, but I didn't know which of these you would want to give him. So! Which do you want to give Daddy as a birthday present?"

"Tre's'nt? Like Hame?"

"Yes!" John encouraged happily. "Just like you got on your birthday not too long ago, remember?"

A large grin spread across Hamish's face as he stared at John. "Hame for Daddy?" he asked excitedly, pointing back at the two items on the floor.

"Yep! You get to pick one. Which do you want?"

Eyes wide with excitement, Hamish stared down at the two choices in front of him. Worrying his lip as he debated, the little boy eventually took a deep breath before pointing to the magnifying glass.

"'Es, John," he said decidedly, giving a firm nod of his head.

"Wonderful," John murmured, standing up once again. "Thank you very, very much, Hamish," he said, giving the little boy another kiss. "You've been a great helper."

"Ta, John!" Hamish cried happily, reaching up to wrap his arms around the doctor's neck. "Daddy 'prise ah-morrow?" he asked hopefully, holding onto to John's jumper as they made their way back into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

"Yep! Tomorrow's Daddy's birthday, and we're giving him a surprise party. But shh! You can't tell him, otherwise it won't be a surprise anymore, see?" John smiled as Hamish nodded earnestly.

"'Es, John. S'cret."

"Exactly! A secret... All right... Now say bye-bye to Mrs. Hudson. We'll see you tomorrow!"

"B-bye, Nana!" Hamish called happily, waving at the busy landlady.

"Bye, love," she replied cheerfully, pausing to give the little boy a warm smile. "See you tomorrow!"

"'Es! Shh," Hamish warned quietly, pressing is fingers to his mouth as his looked up, almost as if he were afraid Sherlock would fall out of the ceiling, having heard the entire secret.

"Right. Of course, darling," Mrs. Hudson whispered back, smiling at John.

"See you Mrs. H.," John chuckled, exiting her flat.

"All right," the doctor sighed as he made his way back up the stairs. "Do you want to go back in with Daddy?"

"'Es 'ease, John. Daddy 'eed Hame."

John smiled, tugging the little boy closer to his chest. "Of course he does. You've been a big help today, Hame. Thank you," the doctor whispered as he entered the quiet flat. "You have a good rest with Daddy, now, okay?"

Hamish nodded, leaning his head against John's shoulder as they entered Sherlock's room. "'Es, John," he whispered quietly, reaching his arms down towards his father's sleeping form. "Daddy an' Hame nigh nigh'."

"Right," John smiled, giving the little boy one last kiss on the cheek. "There you go." Moving slowly, the doctor lowered Hamish back onto the bed, placing him in the small gap between Sherlock's hand and his chest.

"Ta, John," Hamish whispered, stretching up towards the doctor as he pulled away. John smiled as he felt the little boy press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, Hamish," he murmured quietly. "Have a good nap, you two."

"Mmm," the little boy sighed, settling into the warmth of Sherlock's body as John silently left the room, closing the door behind him.

Sensing his son's presence, Sherlock's hand gently wrapped around Hamish's middle, subconsciously pulling him closer.

"Hmm," he sighed in his sleep upon feeling the little boy close to his chest. His lips turned up ever so slightly.

Yawning widely, Hamish lay down on the bed, and snuggled forward, pressing his tiny form against Sherlock's chest. Sighing contently, he curled himself inward, nuzzling further into the detective's warm body. A small smile on his lips as his eyes fluttered open and close, Hamish reached up, draping one arm over Sherlock's shoulder as his breathing slowed and quieted.

With one last deep breath, the little boy's eyes slid shut and he fell asleep, napping with his father as his arm slowly rising and falling with each of Sherlock's deep breaths.


	25. The Best Birthday Present

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of bustling outside of his door. Taking a deep breath, the detective slowly opened his eyes, his acute senses coming to life. Upon trying to move, though, he realized that there was a small mass wrapped tightly in his arms. Smiling, Sherlock closed his eyes, pressing Hamish's small form even closer to his chest. He bent down, letting his cheek rest on top of the little boy's head and took a deep breath.

"Mmm... Daddy?" Hamish asked groggily, squirming in his father's grasp as he was awoken by the sudden movement.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, pulling back and releasing his son's body. "Sorry."

"'Kay, Daddy..." Frowning at having been woken up, Hamish yawned, his tiny fist clenching and unclenching as he pressed his face into Sherlock's shirt. "Uhh," he groaned, grabbing a handful of the fabric. "No up 'ease, Daddy?"

Sherlock laughed, bending down to press a soft kiss to the little boy's curls. "Sorry, Hamish," he chuckled, placing one hand on his son's back. "But we've got to get up, I'm afraid... But," he added cheerfully, hoping it would help wake Hamish up. "It smells like Mrs. Hudson's been cooking, hmm?" He quickly rubbed his palm up and down Hamish's back.

"'Es, Daddy... Daddy up 'ease Hame?" the little boy whispered, peering up at the detective with wide, tired eyes.

"Of course. I'll help you get up. Ohh," Sherlock sighed, pulling Hamish into his arms and onto his hip as he left the bed. "You're getting too big for this," he joked, gently tickling the little boy's stomach.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed, giggling half-heartedly into the detective's shoulder. A small smile on his lips, he closed his eyes, resting comfortably in his father's arms.

Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock quickly ran a hand through his own hair, returning it to its usual tousled look, and then opened the door to his room, walking out into the hallway. He paused upon hearing what sounded like John and Mrs. Hudson whispering in the kitchen, followed closely by the sound of paper rustling. Brows pulled together in confusion, the detective rounded the corner, stopping completely as he saw a large cake on the kitchen table, surrounded by several presents wrapped in colorful paper, and Mrs. Hudson and John gathered around the table, large grins on their faces.

"Oh, Sherlock!" the landlady cheered happily, hurrying around the table. She scurried up to the detective, going on tiptoe to give him a motherly kiss on the cheek. "Happy Birthday, dear." She smiled up at him, and gave him a quick pat on the cheek.

"Nana?" came the quiet voice of Hamish, who had woken up upon hearing her excited cries.

"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock answered slowly, remaining still in the doorway as he stared questioningly at John. "It would seem Mrs. Hudson and John have taken it upon themselves to celebrate my birthday... Despite all of my previous protests," he added, muttering under his breath as he glared at John. The detective jumped slightly upon feeling Hamish bounce suddenly in his arms. He turned his attention to the little boy, who was tugging excitedly at his collar, all tiredness clearly gone.

"Oh! 'Pride, 'pride!" he cried triumphantly, wrapping his chubby arms around Sherlock's neck. "Bi'f'hay at Daddy!"

"Very good, Hamish," John praised, smiling at the excited little boy. "It is a surprise for Daddy's birthday, isn't it? You did a very good job keeping the secret, Hame."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, giving the doctor a dithering look. "You know I don't like celebrating such things, John," he said anxiously, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation.

"You were fine celebrating Hamish's birthday," John countered, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, becasue he's my son and I enjoy making him happy and giving him something to celebrate, but this is different, its—" The detective stopped, blushing at his own words. "I—It's—Oh, you know what I mean," he cried, exasperated.

"Daddy?" Hamish said quietly, tapping the detective on the neck and staring up at Sherlock with worried eyes. "No baf'ay at Daddy?" he asked sadly.

"Oh, umm..." Sherlock paused, taking a moment to stare into the little boy's sea-green eyes. He smiled sadly, running his fingertips over Hamish's back. "Okay," he murmured eventually. "I suppose... Just this once, mind you... I suppose it wouldn't be too horrible to celebrate my birthday... If you want to." Though still unhappy with the situation, the detective couldn't help but soften as he saw Hamish's eyes light up, a wide grin spreading across chubby face.

"Hap' bif'a'hay, Daddy!" the little boy cried happily, throwing his arms around his father's neck. "Ta, Daddy," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of the detective's lips.

Sherlock laughed, placing his hand on the back of Hamish's head. "You're welcome," he chuckled, pulling back to gaze lovingly at the little boy. "Okay," he sighed dramatically, turning his attention back to the room. "Come on then. What's first?"

John grinned, giving Hamish a wide smile. "Well, I suppose we could—"

"Tres'tent!" the little boy exclaimed excitedly, clapping his hands together.

"All right, then! Sounds good to me," John chuckled, moving to the other side of the table.

"Very well," Sherlock sighed. "Hamish, do you want down or do you want to stay with me?"

The little boy thought for a moment, one hand gripping onto his father's shirt, face scrunching up as he thought. "Daddy," he answered, with a firm nod of his head.

Sherlock smiled, giving Hamish a gentle pat on the back. "Excellent," he said, making his way to the other side of the table, by John.

"How about you pick, Hamish?" Mrs. Hudson asked gently, smiling at the little boy.

Grinning, Hamish leaned forward in Sherlock's arms, keeping a fistful of the detective's shirt in his hand as he gazed at the few presents on the table. Sherlock smiled fondly at his son, instinctively leaning forward with the little boy so as to make sure he wouldn't fall.

"John," he stated finally, pointing at a small present with a small nod of his head.

Chuckling, the doctor leaned forward, grabbing the tiny gift and passing it to Sherlock. "There you go."

"Mmm," Sherlock thanked in reply, moving Hamish to his hip as he took the present. He placed it on the table, clearing his throat as he started to open it. He paused, turning to the little boy, who was practically vibrating with excitement in his arms. "Would you like to help?" he asked quietly, the corner of his lips quirking up as he saw Hamish's eyes widen.

"Real, Daddy?"

"Yes," the detective chuckled, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "Really. I would love to have your help." He smiled, setting Hamish in his lap and scooting closer to the table.

A small smile on his lips, the little boy leaned forward, wrapping his chubby hands around the present, and pulled it onto his lap. He frowned slightly, trying to figure out how to go about opening the wrapped gift. "Daddy?" he asked, turning the present over in his hands.

Sherlock chuckled, wrapping one hand around Hamish's middle, and pulling him closer to his torso. "Here," he murmured, leaning around his son's body and taking the gift in his free hand. Sharing a smile with John, the detective gently pried away a piece of tape holding the wrapping together. "There you go. Start there." Smiling, Sherlock gently tapped the torn paper.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Face pulled together in concentration, Hamish started to pull at the present, slowly tearing away the wrapping.

"Thank you for the mug, John," Sherlock whispered out of the corner of his mouth, giving the doctor a smug smile.

Pressing his lips together, John heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the detective. "You know what every single one is, don't you?"

Staring fondly as Hamish continued to open the present, Sherlock merely smiled in reply, lips turned up in a sly smile.

Mrs. Hudson giggled to herself, grinning at the two flat mates.

"You just can't—Ugh!" John cried, running a hand through his short hair. "You're impossible."

Sherlock chuckled, turning to the doctor. "I'm hardly impossible, John," he drawled, giving his friend a knowing look. "I'm merely occasionally difficult."

John chuckled humorlessly. "Right. Of course. Occasionally difficult. That's what it is."

"Tres'tent!" came the triumphant cry of Hamish, interrupting the two flat mates' bickering.

"Oh, very good, Hamish," Sherlock praised, taking the blue coffee mug from his son's chubby hands. He quickly kissed the little boy on the cheek, chuckling at his excitement.

"Help, Daddy?"

"You want to help with another?" the detective asked lovingly, keeping his hand wrapped around the little boy's middle.

Hamish paused, staring up at his father with wide eyes. "'Es, Daddy?" he asked, almost as if he was afraid he was not allowed to help with more than one present.

"Of course," Sherlock encouraged quietly, giving Hamish's stomach a gentle squeeze.

"Oh," the little boy sighed, relaxing in the detective's grasp. The content smile returning to his face, Hamish turned back to the table and quickly pointed to a box-shaped gift. "Daddy?" he asked, turning back to his father to make sure that it was okay to choose said present.

"It's all right," Sherlock murmured, giving the little boy a reassuring smile. Making sure he wasn't squeezing Hamish against the table, the detective leaned forward, grabbing the object in his hand. "Here you go." Smiling lovingly at his son, Sherlock gently placed the heavy book on his thigh, opting to have the weight on his own lap, rather than in Hamish's much smaller one.

"Ta, Daddy," the little boy thanked quietly, giving his father a happy smile before turning his attention back to the gift. Bottom lip protruding in concentration, he started to gently peel away the wrapping, trying not to rip it too much.

"Surely you can't know what this one—"

"A book on outer space, meant to be used as a joke, due to my lack of knowledge of the solar system. Hardly difficult."

John huffed, shaking his head back and forth at his friend. "Come on, then. How'd you know?" he asked, smiling in spite of himself.

"Obvious, John," the detective replied, absentmindedly brushing away some of Hamish's curls from his forehead. "You happened to be staring at that particular gift when I entered the kitchen, smiling in a way that suggested the object would probably be used as some sort of joke or prank. Knowing you, such an object would have to be about something that accentuates my lack of knowledge on a certain subject. And, seeing as there's very little I am not knowledgable about, the most possible subjects would be either my lack of knowledge on the solar system or spray paint (due that incident with the smuggling case several years ago). However, seeing as the spray paint was never brought up again, yet my little knowledge of the solar system has been brought up numerous times in the past, that would mean a book (clear from the shape) would be on information about the solar system. Simple, John."

The room was suddenly silent, with Mrs. Hudson glancing between the two flat mates, John staring at Sherlock with a confused expression on his face, said detective gazing back at John in a very "matter-of-fact" way, and Hamish, who, upon hearing his father's rapid speaking, had forgotten the present and was staring up the detective, mouthing hanging open in a small smile.

"Wow, Daddy," the little boy sighed in amazement, breaking the awkward silence of the flat. All eyes turned to him, and then, suddenly everyone was laughing, the loud noise filling the otherwise-quiet flat.

"Ohh," John sighed, chuckling as he tried to catch his breath. "Okay. Fair enough. Point made... Brilliant," he added under his breath.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, having completely unwrapped the book while the adults were laughing. He grunted quietly, trying to hand the thick book to Sherlock, but unable to lift it with his own tiny arms..

"Oh! Sorry, Hamish," the detective chuckled, taking the gift from his son's chubby hands. "Thank you for opening that for me. You're a wonderful helper," he praised lovingly, pulling Hamish's hands to his lips to give the little boy's fingers a gentle kiss. "How about another one?"

"Oh! 'Es 'ease, Daddy!"

 

 

 

Several presents later (all of which were opened by Hamish, who, each time had been careful not rip the wrapping too much), Sherlock had received a few more gifts, consisting of a new watch from Mrs. Hudson, as well as some sheet music for his violin and a card with money from John.

"All right," John declared happily, giving Hamish a secretive smile. He reached down the table, grabbing the last present. "Here you go, Hame. This is the one you chose for Daddy, remember? How about you let him open it?"

Suddenly, upon seeing his present, the little boy looked very worried. He turned in Sherlock's lap, placing both of his hands to either side of his father's collarbone as he stood up on the detective's thighs. He stretched up, trying to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

A small smile playing on his lips, the detective bent down, allowing easier access for the little boy. "Yes, Hamish?" he murmured, splaying his fingers across his son's back so he wouldn't fall backwards, seeing as the little boy was wobbling considerably. He paused, listening intently as Hamish whispered in his ear. Upon hearing his son's request, Sherlock felt a warmth run across his chest. "Of course," he whispered, pulling back to gaze fondly at the little boy.

The corner of his lips twitching up into a smile, the detective stood up, placing Hamish on the ground. That familiar fluttering in his chest, he bent down, taking the little boy's chubby hand in his own, before turning back to John, eyebrows raised as he took a breath. "Hamish has requested that we open his gift later tonight, but he would prefer I open it alone with him." Despite usually becoming embarrassed at showing affection around others, Sherlock couldn't help but smile down at the little boy holding his hand, not minding whether John or Mrs. Hudson saw.

"Ah," the doctor sighed quietly, gazing fondly at his flat mates. "Of course." Smiling, he knelt down on one knee so he was eye level with Hamish. "Here you go," he whispered, passing the small gift to the little boy.

"Ta, John," Hamish replied quietly, releasing Sherlock's hand to take the gift from the doctor. Smiling, he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to John's cheek. "Ta," he thanked again.

"You're most certainly welcome," John murmured in reply, gently ruffling the small boy's curls. "Now why don't you go put that somewhere safe, hmm?"

Hamish thought for a moment, looking up at Sherlock with questioning eyes as he carefully held the gift between both of his chubby hands. The detective peered back down, giving his son a reassuring smile. "Maybe on my bed?" he suggested quietly, gently placing his hand on the little boy's back.

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy." Grinning widely, Hamish clutched the present close to his chest, and hurried forward, toddling out of the kitchen.

Sherlock chuckled, gazing after the little boy. He took a deep breath, smiling as he heard Hamish start to mutter unhappily to himself in the other room, clearly displeased with something.

"Do you need help, Hamish?" he called.

"No, Daddy?" the little boy called back, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"I've got it," Mrs. Hudson chuckled, quickly hurrying out of the kitchen.

Knowing what was coming, Sherlock took a deep breath, turning his attention to John.

"All right, all right," he said hurriedly upon seeing the smug look on the doctor's face. "Yes, yes, I know. It was not as horrible as I had originally anticipated... Although," added hurriedly, "I did not appreciate the book."

John laughed, pleased his gift had had the desired affect. "Good," he chuckled, smiling at his friend. "Well, I'm glad it wasn't as bad as you'd expected... It's sweet Hame wants to open his present alone with you. Of course you already know what it is, so that kind of takes away the—"

"I don't know what his gift is," Sherlock interrupted quietly, staring at the doctor as though he was confused as to how he could think such a thing. "Your presents were obvious, John, and easy to guess because I've know you for so long. However, Hamish is too young to really pick a gift based on past opinions and thoughts. Therefore, I have no idea what he's given me."

John paused, taking a moment to smile at his flat mate. "Right. Of course," he whispered, chuckling to himself. "Well... I think you'll like it."

The detective raised an eyebrow in reply, a small, curious smile playing on his lips.

"'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish called happily, hurrying back into the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson close behind, his hands now free of the tiny gift. He hurried towards Sherlock, but stopped as he saw the small pile of wrapping paper on the ground. Suddenly, a pained expression on his face, the little boy bent down, hurriedly trying to pull all of the discarded paper into his tiny arms.

Confused by his son's efforts, Sherlock quickly glanced at John and Mrs. Hudson before bending down, and picking up the few pieces Hamish had missed. "Hamish?" he asked gently, placing his hand on the little boy's back. "What's wrong? What're you doing with the wrapping paper?"

The little boy froze, staring at his father with wide eyes. Suddenly, as if he was embarrassed, Hamish's eyes fell to the ground, and a sad frown pulled down his features. "No ouch," he replied sadly, gazing down at the paper in his arms.

Understanding, Sherlock paused, gazing with a sad smile at his son. "Hamish, he whispered gently, turning the little boy so they were face to face. "It's okay, Hamish. The wrapping paper isn't hurt. I promise. It doesn't feel things like you and I do. It's not living, so it can't get an ouch like us. It's perfectly fine the way it is... You don't need to feel sad." The detective paused, gazing with fond eyes at the little boy. "But I'll tell you what... It would be lovely if you could make something for me with this," he murmured, rubbing his thumb across Hamish's cheek as he held up the pieces in his hand.

With a quiet sniffle, the little boy gazed up at Sherlock, his mouth pressing together into a sweet smile. "Real, Daddy?" he asked quietly.

"Really. In fact, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson and John would love something as well," he added, giving Hamish a warm smile.

Upon hearing this, the little boy seemed to perk up, the small smile spreading across his face. "'Kay, Daddy, "he said contently, gaze falling upon the large pile of paper in his arms.

"Here," Sherlock said, placing the pieces of wrapping paper back on the floor before. "How about we have a little bit of cake first, and then you can go and make us something, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy." Hamish replied quietly, bending down to delicately place the pile of papers on the ground in front of him.

"Very good," the detective whispered, pulling the little boy into his arms.

Grinning at the situation, Mrs. Hudson hurried forward, and began to cut several pieces of the cake.

"Oh, uh... No thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock declined politely, taking Hamish's piece of cake in his hand as he sat down, placing the little boy on his knee. "Okay," he sighed, grabbing the fork John had just passed him. Wrapping his arm around his son's middle, the detective offered the utensil to Hamish, who eagerly grabbed it from his father's hand.

"Ah. What do we say?" Sherlock prompted.

"Oh! Ta, Nana," Hamish said happily, giving the landlady a small smile. He turned to his father for reassurance before turning back to the cake.

Chucking at the little boy, both John and Mrs. Hudson sat down with their own pieces of cake, munching happily on the sweet treat.

"Daddy," Hamish stated firmly, turning in the detective's lap to offer him a piece of the pastry.

"No, Hamish. Really, I'm okay," Sherlock told him, giving the little boy a reassuring smile, though he knew it wouldn't work.

"No, Daddy. Have."

Chuckling at the persistence of his son, the detective leaned forward, taking the bite Hamish had offered. "Thank you, Hamish," he whispered. "That was lovely."

Now content that his father had at least eaten some of his own birthday cake, the little boy turned back to the treat, careful to scoop each bite onto the fork before delicately placing it in his mouth.

 

 

 

The rest of the day went by normally. After having placed each sheet of wrapping paper in a very particular spot around the sitting room (all of which were not to be moved), Hamish had created several art projects for both John and Mrs. Hudson as well as many for Sherlock in addition to several drawings as a sort of birthday bonus.

They had eaten Mrs. Hudson's delicious cooking for dinner, during which Hamish had refused to eat his own food unless and until Sherlock had not only gotten, but completely eaten his own serving.

"I swear," John chuckled as they left the kitchen. "If it weren't for him, I'm not sure you would eat at all." The doctor smiled at his flat mate, groaning slightly as he sat down in his chair.

"Please, John, that's ridiculous. Of course I would eat... I just wouldn't eat as frequently." Despite his sarcastic tone, the detective smiled lovingly, pressing a quick kiss to Hamish's temple.

 

 

 

After Mrs. Hudson had retired for the night, the flat mates of 221B were all sat in the living room, staring tiredly into the fire they had started. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, Hamish resting peacefully in his lap, while John was sat in his chair, gazing at the burning fire.

"Come on," Sherlock murmured quietly upon glancing at his watch. Draping Hamish's tired form over his shoulder, the detective slowly stood up off of the couch and began walking to his room. He paused, giving the little boy a moment to say goodnight to John. "Say goodnight," he prompted quietly.

"Nigh' nigh', John," Hamish whispered tiredly, giving a tiny wave of his hand, eyes drooping slightly at the effort.

"G'night, little man," the doctor replied quietly, giving the little boy a warm smile. "Sleep tight, Hame."

Trying to keep his eyes open, Hamish smiled in return, tiredly wrapping his arms around his father's neck. "I'll be back in a moment," the detective added, turning back to glance at his flatmate.

Turning back to his room, and sensing his son's tiredness, Sherlock placed his hand on the little boy's back, bouncing slightly as he continued to make his way back to his room.

Shutting the door behind him, the detective glided over to his bed, pausing as he saw a tiny gift sitting in the middle of the sheets.

"Oh. Right... Hamish?" he asked quietly, sitting down on the bed, and moving the little boy onto his lap. "Your present is still here. Do you want to open it now or just wait until tomorrow?"

"Oh," Hamish said, eyebrows pulling together as he remembered the gift. "'Ow 'ease, Daddy?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied fondly, brushing the back of his fingers across Hamish's forehead. Moving so he was leaning against the headboard, the detective reached down, grabbing the gift in his slender fingers. "Okay," he sighed, wrapping his arm around around the little boy's body.

Sighing contently, and now more alert with the small amount of excitement coursing through his body, Hamish settled himself closer to Sherlock's body, leaning against the detective's torso. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered contently, giving his father a small nod of his head.

Sherlock smiled back before turning his attention to the small gift in his hand. Careful not to tear too much of the wrapping paper, as it still upset Hamish, the detective slowly peeled away the dark blue paper, stopping as he finally saw what it was for the first.

In Sherlock's hands was a small magnifying glass, almost identical to the one he had now, just a little bigger, and instead of the lens popping out to the side, with the click of a button, it would shoot out the top. A smile turning up the corners of his lips, the detective clicked the button on the side the reveal the lens. Unable to contain his happiness, Sherlock grinned, turning to gaze down at his son with a loving gaze.

"You picked this for me?" he whispered, thumb absentmindedly running across the smooth glass.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly, staring up at the detective with wide, happy eyes. "Like?"

Sherlock uttered something between a sob and a chuckle. "I love it," he whispered, eyes stinging with the feel of tears. He bent down, clutching the magnifying glass in his hand, and wrapped his arms around Hamish's small body, pressing him close to his chest.

"Thank you," he murmured, pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's head. "Thank you very much, Hamish... This is wonderful. You're wonderful."

Clearly pleased Sherlock liked his gift so much, Hamish relaxed in his father's arms, eyes fluttering shut. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered against the detective's shirt, clutching a fistful of the fabric in his chubby hand.

"I love you, too, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, pressing another loving kiss to Hamish's curls. "Very much. And this," he paused, leaning back so he could see his son's face and held up the gift, "means more to me than you can possibly know."

"Best?" Hamish asked tiredly, blinking slowly as he heard his father's deep, baritone laugh.

"No..." Sherlock whispered quietly, gazing down at his son with loving eyes. Taking a deep breath, he slowly rolled off of the bed, turning back to gently set Hamish, who looked thoroughly confused, under the covers. Placing one hand to the side of his son's head, Sherlock leaned down towards the bed, hovering over his son's small form. "Though I do love this," he murmured, "it's certainly not the best birthday gift." Upon hearing this, Hamish frowned, tears welling in his eyes. "What, Daddy?" he asked sadly. "No Daddy like..."

"No," Sherlock chuckled gently, brushing his fingertips over the little boy's cheek. "It's just, the best birthday gift anyone could have ever given me... Is you, Hamish..."

The little boy paused, staring up at his father with wide eyes.

"Hame best?" he whispered in amazement.

"Yes... Always," Sherlock replied gently, lips turned up in a small, loving smile. "You're the best thing that's happened to me, Hamish. And I want you to know that. You're the best thing I could have ever gotten."

Hamish smiled, staring up at his father. "Daddy," he sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned into Sherlock's touch. "Daddy best," he whispered, keeping his eyes closed.

"I'm the best for you, too?" the detective murmured, brushing his thumb over Hamish's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy... Best Daddy Hame." A tired smile on his face, Hamish opened his eyes to stare contently at his father. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered, reaching up to press one of his hands to the detective's cheek.

Feeling an uncontrollable amount of happiness, Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling into his son's touch. He took little notice as a single, warm tear slid free, gliding down his cheek.

"Thank you, Hamish," he murmured, reaching up to wrap his slender fingers around his son's chubby hand. Keeping his eyes closed, he pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's fingers, allowing them to rest against his lips. "Goodnight," he whispered eventually, keeping Hamish's hand wrapped safely in his own.

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish replied, his hand already beginning to go limp in the detective's grasp.

"Sleep well," the detective added, watching with a loving gaze as Hamish's eyes slowly slid shut, the weight of his head completely resting in his hand.

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock slowly lowered his hand, moving so the little boy's head was resting against the bed. Then, after pressing another gentle kiss to his son's fingers, the detective placed Hamish's arm back on the bed, tucking it under the duvet. He looked around, finding the little boy's gift, though he couldn't recall having ever set it down, and turned back to the sleeping boy. Magnifying glass in hand, he bent down, pressing a soft, loving kiss to Hamish's temple and then turned back to the doorway. He paused upon seeing his coat hanging on the hook.

Smiling to himself, with one swift move, Sherlock pulled his old magnifying glass out of one of the pockets. Hand resting on the doorknob, the detective turned back, smiling lovingly at Hamish's sleeping form. "Goodnight," he whispered, slipping the new magnifying glass into the pocket, before hurrying out the door.


	26. Even Thunderstorms

"No," Sherlock warned, raising an eyebrow at Hamish. "Hamish, we don't splash in the—"

"Oops. Hame so'ey, Daddy," the little boy said feebly, look anywhere but his father's eyes as he quickly shoved his hands back under the water.

"Mmm-hmm," the detective hummed sarcastically, fixing the little boy with a stern stare. "It's okay. But no more splashing, all right?"

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish exclaimed happily, a large grin spreading across his face. He continued to play with the bubbles, crashing his toys through them as if they were waves. Sherlock watched him with fond eyes, seated cross-legged on the floor of the bathroom, a towel already in hand.

"Daddy some?" the little boy asked happily, extending a chubby hands full of suds to the detective.

"Sure," Sherlock chuckled, leaning forward to allow his son to delicately place the bubbles on the tip of his nose.

"Good, Daddy," Hamish said proudly, giving a little nod of his head. "Turn." A small smile gracing his lips, the little boy leaned forward, gripping to the edge of the tub and squeezed his eyes shut in preparation.

"My turn, hmm?" Sherlock asked, scooping a small pile of foam into his hand. With a quiet exclamation, he quickly plopped the suds onto Hamish's own nose, playfully wiping the rest across his wet curls.

The little boy giggled, opening his eyes to grin at Sherlock.

The detective quickly finished washing his son's small body, taking extra time to tickle the little boy's wet stomach as he washed him off.

"No 'ease, Daddy!" Hamish laughed as he was gentle lifted out of the tub by his father.

"What? No tickling?" Sherlock exclaimed incredulously, wrapping the towel around his son's wet body. He quickly rubbed the fabric over Hamish's curly hair, soaking up most of the remaining water.

"No, Daddy," the little boy laughed, leaning forward to lean his head against Sherlock's shoulder as he snuggled deeply into both the towel and his father's arms.

"No? Well... I suppose, if you insist..." The detective smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to Hamish's cheek as he quickly dried the little boy off.

"Ohh," he sighed, placing the little boy on the ground. "There we go. Hold on, let me grab a nappy." Smiling to himself, Sherlock turned around, making his way to the changing station that was now in his room. He quickly opened one of the drawers, pulling out a nappy and then turned back, facing Hamish once again. He paused, nappy still in hand as he saw the little boy, who was now seated on the floor, trying to tug his purple button-up on, brows pulled together in concentration, lip protruding as he tried to maneuver the fabric over his head.

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock stopped, silently placing the nappy on the bed. He slowly lowered himself to the ground, watching with fond eyes as his son managed to slip the fabric over his head.

"Daddy!" he cried triumphantly, throwing his arms into the air as he stood up. Sherlock's shirt fell loosely to the ground, swamping his entire body. The little boy stopped, freezing when he noticed his father was not in front of him, as he had thought.

"Daddy?" he called, trying to hurry forward, but tripping over the fabric of the detective's shirt.

"Hamish," Sherlock called gently, a warm smile playing on his lips.

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief upon seeing his father. He turned around, rushing forward towards the detective.

"Look, Daddy!" he said proudly, trying to hold his arms out. "Hame Daddy!" He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. Unable to contain his excitement, the little boy surged forward, trying to wrap his arms around his father's neck.

Chuckling contently, Sherlock pulled the little boy into his arms, placing one hand on the back of his son's head, the other on his back.

"Why, you're just like me now, aren't you?" he chuckled, gently moving away some of the little boy's curls that had fallen in his face.

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish giggled, as the shirt started to fall off of his tiny shoulders.

"Here," Sherlock chuckled, gently pulling his shirt off of Hamish's small body. "How about we get a nappy on, hmm?"

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy replied happily, giving his father a quick nod of his head. Completely naked, he hurried back over to the discarded towel, attempting to wrap it around his body.

Sherlock chuckled after the little boy, standing back up off the floor. He silently hovered over his son, watching lovingly as Hamish finally managed to "wrap" the towel around his body, though it was only draped over one of his shoulders.

"Very good job, Hamish," the detective praised, bending down to pick the little boy up.

"No 'ease, Daddy," Hamish said firmly, tapping at the hand Sherlock had wrapped around his middle. "Hame do. 'Es 'ease. Hame do." Smiling, as if to reassure his father, and desperately trying not to let the towel slip off of his shoulders, Hamish made his way to the bed. With a tiny grunt of effort, he managed to climb onto the strip of wood, though the towel quickly fell from his tiny body.

Chuckling at his son, Sherlock bent down, picking up the fallen fabric and, with a loving smile, placed his hand under Hamish's bare bottom, giving him a gentle push onto the bed.

Upon realizing he had actually gotten onto the bed himself, the little boy gasped, and quickly turned, grinning at his father, hands thrown up in a triumphant pose.

"Hame do!" he called, reaching towards the detective.

"Yes you did!" Sherlock praised, hurrying forward to give Hamish another tight hug. "You're becoming such a big boy!" Grinning warmly at his son, the detective quickly leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to the little boy's nose.

Giggling sweetly, and keeping one hand on Sherlock's arm, Hamish opened his eyes, and started to lean in, about to mimic his father. He stopped though, face pulling together into a tiny frown as he saw that there were still some suds on the detective's nose.

"Daddy?" he asked quietly, pointing to the towel in his father's hand.

Confused as to his son's intentions, Sherlock slowly lifted his hand, placing the soft fabric in the little boy's tiny hands.

"Hamish," he began, mimicking his son's almost confused expression. "What are you want—" The detective stopped, freezing as Hamish gently took the towel between his chubby hands, pressing the fabric to his nose. Understanding, Sherlock stopped, allowing his son to tenderly wipe away the bubbles on his nose. He couldn't help but smile at the absolutely serious look on Hamish's face, watching with a tender gaze as the little boy slowly moved the towel across his skin, the fabric clutched between his chubby fingers.

Deciding that the towel was not working well enough for him, Hamish hummed to himself and gently placed the fabric on the bed. A tender look on his face, the little boy turned back to his father, and started to gently brush his chubby fingers over the detective's skin, wiping away all of the tiny, dried circles of suds that were scattered across his skin.

Sherlock smiled lovingly, staring intently at Hamish as the little boy gently brushed his tiny fingers across his skin.

A content smile pulling up the corners of his lips, Sherlock took a moment to study his son's beautiful features, suddenly feeling breathless as he stared into Hamish's impossibly deep green eyes, felt his chubby fingers against his cheeks. The detective couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat in his chest as he realized Hamish had the same look on his face, that he had whenever he was focusing intently on a case.

"Oh," he sighed, so quietly it went unnoticed by Hamish. He felt a strange mixture of pride and bittersweet sadness swell in his chest. "Hamish," he whispered quietly, brushing the back of his knuckles across the little boy's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish whispered back, his hand pausing, in the hollow below Sherlock's cheekbone. His other hand slowly slid down, resting against the detective's neck.

Sherlock smiled, eyes filled with love as he stared at the little boy in front of him. "Nothing," he murmured warmly, running the tips of his fingers up and down his son's smooth back.

"'Kay, Daddy?" Hamish asked, seeing the look on his father's face.

Sherlock smiled, leaning in to place a tender kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Yes, Hamish," he murmured, smiling even more as he felt Hamish's fingers curl against his skin. "I'm okay... I just love you... That's all."

"Oh," the little boy sighed, leaning forward to rest his head against his father's cheek. "Good, Daddy... Hame 'ove."

"I'm glad you love me, too," the detective murmured, placing his hand to the back as he smiled against Hamish's curls. "Come on then," he chuckled, taking a deep breath as he tried to regain his breathing. "Let's get ready for bed."

"Good, Daddy. Seepy."

"You're sleepy?" Sherlock chuckled, laying Hamish's tiny form on the bed.

"'Es, Daddy. Da'ey seepy?" he yawned, pressing a tiny fist to his eyes.

"Not as tired as you seem to be," the detective laughed, quickly finishing the nappy. "Ohh," he sighed dramatically, lifting his son's tired form into his arms. He gently bounced the little boy in his arms. "Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?" he murmured.

Hamish thought for a moment, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder as contemplated. "Daddy bed," he said finally, yawning again against the detective's skin.

"All right... There we go," he sighed, slowly lowering Hamish's tired form onto his bed. He gently pulled the covers up around his son's tiny body, making sure to grab the little boy's blanket out of his cot. "All set?" he murmured, tucking the blanket under the sheets as he placed a tender hand to Hamish's cheek.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed in response, eyes already sliding shut as he settled into the warmth and comfort of his touch, with blanket in hand.

"Good," Sherlock murmured, bending down to press a quick kiss to the little boy's brow. "Goodnight."

 

 

 

John returned home late from a date with Mary to find Sherlock in the sitting room, wearing his blue dressing gown, his chest bare, with the doctor's laptop resting in his lap, still dripping from the thunderstorm raging outside.

"Is that my—"

"Yes, John. It's your computer." The detective stopped what he was doing, taking a moment to give his flat mate a smug look. "You should just expect it by now."

"Of course," John sighed, squaring his jaw as he tossed his coat over his chair. "Can't say that I'm truly surprised that—"

"Daddy?" came a tiny sniffle. Case instantly forgotten, Sherlock glanced to his doorway to see Hamish, face red from crying, with his blanket clutched tightly to his bare chest. "Hamish?" he exclaimed, hurrying towards the little boy. "What's wrong?" he asked frantically, pulling the crying boy into his arms.

"L-loud stormy," Hamish cried, pressing his face into his father's robed shoulder. "Hame had scared."

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, running a soothing hand up and down the little boy's back. "Would you like to stay out here with me and John until the storm passes?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Hame wan-want Da'ey make stormy nigh' nigh'," Hamish cried sadly, jumping as a loud clap of thunder shook the decorations on the walls. "Daddy," he groaned, dropping the blanket so he could wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Hamish," the detective soothed, moving down to sit on the couch. "It's okay," he whispered, gently rocking back and forth. "It's just thunder... It can't hurt you, I promise."

"Mun'un'der loud and scared," the little boy whispered, pressing his face against Sherlock's collarbone.

"Yes... I know," the detective whispered sadly. "It's loud and scary, isn't it?" He felt Hamish nod feebly against his chest, whimpering as another loud crack echoed outside.

"Shh, it's okay, Hamish... I'm right here," Sherlock murmured, pressing his son's tiny body close to his bare chest. "How about we try to lay down, hmm?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy."

With Hamish's chubby arms still wrapped firmly around his neck, Sherlock leaned back on the couch, carefully moving the little boy with him, and stretched out along the couch. He glanced at John, who shot him a sympathetic look.

"See?" Sherlock murmured, running his fingers over Hamish's auburn curls. "It's okay... I've got you now... Shh."

"Make nigh' nigh'?" Hamish asked hopefully, sniffling as a few tears slid down his face. With a sad smile, Sherlock reached down, tenderly rubbing away the tears. He let his hand remain on the side of the little boy's face. "I'm sorry," he apologized gently. "But I'm afraid I can't make the storm go night night... I wish I could... But it's okay now, Hamish... You have nothing to worry about. I've got you."

Relaxing a little at Sherlock's words and now that he was safe in his father's embrace, Hamish closed his eyes, cuddling against the detective's bare skin. He shivered slightly as another clap of thunder shook the walls.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked, already pulling his robe up over Hamish's bare body, subconsciously pressing the tiny boy closer to his warmer skin.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish answered sadly, nodding against the detective's chest. "An' had scared..."

"I'm sorry, Hamish... I'll try to make the 'scared' go away as best I can, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy... Keep Hame safe?" the little boy asked hopefully, pulling away from Sherlock's chest so he could gaze at his father.

The detective paused for a moment, running his thumb over Hamish's eyebrow. The little boy blinked slowly with the gentle movement, hands curling against his father's skin. "Always," Sherlock murmured eventually, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his son's forehead. "I'll always keep you safe, Hamish... Even from the thunderstorms." The detective smiled sadly at the little boy, desperately wanting to take away his fear.

With a sad sigh, Hamish scooted himself forward, draping his arms over the detective's shoulders as he snuggled against Sherlock's neck. "Daddy safe," he whispered, absentmindedly twirling a lock of his father's hair between his fingers as his eyes began to flutter shut. "Daddy have Hame safe."

Sherlock smiled, tucking Hamish's head under his chin as the little boy started to fall asleep again, his breaths becoming deeper and quick as he fought to stay away. "Always..." he murmured. "Daddy will always keep you safe, Hamish."

"Mmm," Hamish sighed in response, eye sliding shut. With a lock of his father's hair still clutched in his hand, the little boy fell asleep, not even flinching with the next clap of thunder.

Sherlock smiled, running the tips of his fingers over Hamish's silky curls. "Thunderstorms," he chuckled lovingly, watching the gentle rise and fall of his son's breaths. "Even from thunderstorms, Hamish."


	27. Dp'ted, Daddy?

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Dp'ted, Daddy?

Sherlock had awoken at some point during the night, as Hamish shifted against his chest, whimpering in his sleep from the storm.

"Shh," he whispered quietly, running a soothing hand up and down the little boy's back. "It's okay. I'm right here." With another tiny moan, Hamish gripped onto the detective's shirt, clutching the fabric between his tiny fingers.

"Hamish," Sherlock whispered in a comforting voice, slowly rolling off of the couch. "Shh... It's all right." Hugging his son close to his chest, the detective began to slowly pace around the flat, gently bouncing Hamish up and down as he walked, rubbing a comforting hand over the little boy's smooth skin.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed in his sleep, body going limp as he relaxed once again, soothed by the gentle rocking and the sound of his father's voice.

"That's it," Sherlock murmured slowly upon feeling the little boy's weight lean against him as he relaxed. A small, loving smile pulling at his lips, the detective bent down, pressing a tender kiss to Hamish's auburn curls. "It's okay now."

Smiling as he felt Hamish's hand release his shirt, moving to rest in the gap at the base of his neck, Sherlock slowly meandered into his room, pulling the little boy close as he laid down on the bed.

"There we go," he murmured lovingly, rolling onto his side and gently placing Hamish's sleeping form next to him. The detective was about to lay down, himself, when he heard Hamish murmur something in his sleep. Pausing, Sherlock sat up, staring at his son's face, smiling fondly when he saw that Hamish was dreaming. Realizing it had never occurred to him that the little boy could be having a good dream, Sherlock decided to abandon the idea of sleeping, opting to stay up and watch his son as he dreamed. The detective couldn't help but feel that warm fluttering in his chest as he saw a tiny, content smile spread across Hamish's face. "Hmm," the little boy hummed, eyes fluttering as he slept.

Smiling wistfully, Sherlock watched in mild wonder as his son dreamt, gazing at the small smile gracing the little boy's lips. With incredibly gentle hands, the detective scooted closer to Hamish's sleeping form and started to run his fingertips over Hamish's face.

In response to his father's touch, the little boy sighed happily, murmuring to himself as he slept.

"Mmmda," he breathed, one hand reaching towards the detective.

"Shh," Sherlock murmured tenderly, wrapping his fingers around Hamish's tiny hand and pulling the chubby fingers to his lips. "Right here..."

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish sighed in response, hand curling in the detective's.

A delighted smile tugging at his lips, Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to the little boy's fingers, relaxing into the bed as he stared fondly at Hamish.

 

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the night watching his son's sweet face as he dreamed, using his free hand to gently play with Hamish's curls as the the little boy's tiny hand was wrapped safely in his own.

It was nearly nine o'clock by the time Hamish shifted in his sleep, brows pulling together in tiredness as he awoke.

"Good morning, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, brushing his fingers over the little boy's forehead.

"Morn', Daddy," the little boy yawned, frowning as he tried to sit up.

"Tired?" the detective chuckled, sitting himself up in the bed as he pulled Hamish into his lap.

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy agreed, nodding his head as he pressed his face into the space at the base of Sherlock's neck.

"I know," the detective smiled, gently patting his son's bottom. "You were dreaming last night," he murmured, running a hand through the little boy's curls.

"What, Daddy? What 'eam?" Hamish asked quizzically, gazing up at his father from where he was resting.

"Dream," Sherlock corrected, chuckling down at the little boy. "And a dream is a series of images you see during your sleep. Whatever you were dreaming about, it made you giggle!" Grinning at his son, the detective quickly tickled Hamish's stomach, brushing his fingertips over his son's soft skin.

"Daddy," Hamish laughed, shoving his father's hands away as he giggled. "'Ease no tick, Daddy?" he asked sweetly, pressing his hands to Sherlock's chest as he sat back in the detective's lap.

"Oh, if you insist," Sherlock sighed dramatcially, throwing his hands up in mock 'surrender.'

"Good, Daddy," Hamish said contently, giving the detective a gentle pat of acknowledgement. "And Hame 'eam at T'mas!" he declared happily, bouncing in his father's lap.

"Ahh," Sherlock sighed happily, giving his son a quick wink, which only resulted in more giggling. "I should have known."

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed, smiling up at his father as he leaned forward, resting his head against Sherlock's chest.

"Quite right," the detective rumbled, chuckling down at the little boy.

Both father and son jumped as a loud clap of thunder shook the walls of the tiny flat.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried, pressing his tiny form into the detective's chest, gripping tightly onto his shirt.

"Shh," Sherlock chuckled, laughing at his own fright. "It's okay, Hamish. It's just thunder..."

"Hame no like mun'un'der," the little boy mumbled, frowning against his father's skin.

"I know you don't... Here. Try and think of it this way." Hoping to comfort his son in some way, Sherlock quickly scooted off the bed, grabbing his robe and wrapping it around him as he made his way into the sitting room, Hamish resting on his hip.

The little boy winced slightly at having been exposed suddenly to the bright light of the room, leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder as the detective moved to the window.

"Hamish?" he murmured, pointing the glass as rain droplets quickly slid down the smooth surface.

"'Es, Daddy?" the little boy whispered, turning his attention to the window. He remained leaning against Sherlock's shoulder, gazing out at the dreary day.

"Remember how, a long time ago, we saw that streak of lightning in the sky, just by the flat, and you thought it was beautiful?" the detective asked slowly, swaying back and forth as he gazed down at Hamish.

The little boy thought for a moment, absentmindedly playing with his father's curls as he pondered. "'Es, Daddy," he whispered eventually, giving a firm nod of his head.

"Good," Sherlock whispered, giving Hamish an encouraging smile. "Well, the big flashes that you see... Those are just the pretty streaks of lightning. Understand?"

"Oh... 'Es, Daddy," the little boy sighed in realization, staring up at his father as he spoke with wide, eager eyes.

"Well, we know that light travels faster than... Do you remember, Hamish?"

"Mound!" the little boy cried triumphantly, throwing a chubby arm into the air.

Sherlock beamed down at his son, subconsciously pulling him closer. "Excellent!" he praised, pressing a soft kiss to the little boy's forehead. "So we know that light travels faster than sound... That means when lightning strikes the ground, we won't hear it until much later, depending on how far away the bolt was and where it hit the ground, as well as several other factors including how—Oops! Sorry, Hamish. Rambling again," the detective murmured upon seeing how overwhelmed the little boy looked. He quickly brushed the back of his knuckles over Hamish's cheek. "What I'm trying to say is... Thunder... Is just the delayed sound of when a lightning bolt hits the ground... See? It's nothing to be afraid of; it can't hurt you. Thunder is merely sound traveling faster than the light that created it in the first place."

"Ohh," Hamish sighed, eyes widening in understanding as he stared out of the window. "So... No mun'un'der scared, Daddy?" he asked quietly, turning his attention back to the detective.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "No," he whispered, rubbing the palm of his hand up and down Hamish's bare back. "The thunder isn't scary... It's just sound."

"Hmm... Good, Daddy," Hamish sighed, leaning forward again to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "Ta, Daddy."

"Of course," the detective murmured, pressing a kiss to the little boy's curls. "You're so clever..." he added wistfully, staring at his son's beautiful features.

"'Es, Daddy... Umm... Hame have anda'ba'nanana?" he asked distractedly, frowning down at his stomach.

Sherlock grinned down at the little boy in his arms, chuckling at his request. "Yes, of course. We can go get you a banana... Sorry I rambled again," he murmured, hurrying into the kitchen.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled as the detective gently placed him on the ground. "Hame like. Daddy speak bat'ma'u'ful."

Sherlock paused, gazing down at his son. "You think it's beautiful when I speak?" he whispered incredulously, an overwhelming sensation of love swelling in his chest.

"...'Es, Daddy," Hamish answered curiously, staring at his father with a look that clearly said: Duh, Daddy.

Sherlock laughed out loud, kneeling down to wrap his arms around Hamish's small body. "Brilliant," he murmured into his son's curls. "You're just... Brilliant, Hamish... And I do love you so much for it."

"Hmm... An' Hame 'ove Daddy," the little boy whispered back, going on tiptoe so he could wrap his chubby arms around the detective's neck. Sherlock smiled against Hamish's silky hair, taking a deep breath as he gave the little boy a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Hamish," he breathed, placing his hand to the back of the little boy's neck as he pressed a tender kiss to his son's brow.

"Mmm..." Giving Hamish a warm smile, Sherlock quickly pressed the little boy closer before leaning back and releasing him. "Banana... Right. Good." Smiling fondly as he watched his son toddle away into the living room, the detective turned around, quickly preparing breakfast for the little boy.

 

 

"Very good! Now can you tell me where... My eyes are?"

Sherlock was lying on his back in the sitting room, Hamish hovering over him as they practiced naming and finding body parts.

"Eyes, Daddy?" the little boy asked, bending over his father's face as he toddled around on his chubby legs.

"Yes, Hamish. Can you show me where my eyes are?"

Hamish thought for a moment, bending close to the detective's face; the tip of his curly hair brushed against Sherlock's cheek as he gazed at his father's face. "Eyes!" he called eventually, pressing both of his chubby hands over the detective's eyes.

"Very good," Sherlock chuckled, reaching up to give the little boy an affectionate pat on the back. He blinked under Hamish's fingers smiling as he felt his son bend down to press a tiny kiss to his forehead. "Mmm... Thank you, Hamish," he hummed.

"N'xt, Daddy!"

"All right... How about my tummy? Show me where my tummy is."

"Tum'ny, Daddy?"

"Yes."

"Mmm... 'Kay, Daddy." With determined eyes, Hamish pulled away from Sherlock's face, removing his hands from the detective's eyes. With a tiny gasp, he grinned and toddled down to Sherlock's middle. "Tum'ny!" he said excitedly, gently collapsing on to the detective's stomach.

"Oh! Yes," Sherlock chuckled, gazing down as the little boy curled up on his middle. Smiling at his son, the detective placed a gentle hand on the little boy's back. Though Hamish was nearly seventeen months old, he was still very tiny for his age and could fit comfortably on Sherlock's chest and stomach.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly as he slowly slid off the detective's stomach.

"Yes?" Sherlock chuckled, reaching up to brush some of the little boy's curly hair off of his forehead.

"Hame toes?" he asked, smiling sweetly at his father.

"You want me to find your toes?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Daddy Hame toes."

"All right," Sherlock chuckled, grinning at his son as he sat up. "Hmm... Toes... Where would Hamish's toes be?"

Hamish giggled, pressing his chubby fingers to his mouth in an effort to muffle his laughs. "Daddy," he sighed, smiling at his father.

Suppressing his smile, Sherlock pulled Hamish into his arms and then, in one swift move, gently laid him on the floor. "Well," he sighed, sitting on his knees as he leaned forward, hovering over his son's small body. He playfully wrapped his fingers around each of the little boy's hands, pulling them to his face as the 'thought.' "Toes... Toes... Are they... Right here?" Grinning, Sherlock bent down, pressing a ticklish kiss to Hamish's bare stomach.

"No, Daddy!" he laughed, squirming as the detective tickled his stomach.

"No?" Sherlock asked incredulously, gazing down at the little boy with an amazed expression. "Well... If your toes aren't there... I conclude they're down here!" Releasing Hamish's fingers, the detective quickly scooted back, wrapping his hands around the little boy's feet. "Here?" he asked playfully, as his thumb quickly skimmed over the smooth skin.

"'Es, Daddy! Hame toes! No 'ease tick?"

"No tickling? Are you sure?" Grinning lovingly at his son, Sherlock quickly bent down, pressing his lips to Hamish's tiny toes, pretending to 'eat' them.

"No! No 'ease, Daddy! Hame ask!" the little boy laughed, pressing his chubby hands to the detective's face in an effort to shove him away.

"Well I know you asked," Sherlock sighed, stopping his stream of kisses to smile up at Hamish. "But I just couldn't resist."

"Hmm," the little boy sighed, toes curling in his father's fingers as he caught his breath. "Silly, Daddy."

"Absolutely," he hummed, pressing one last, tender kiss to the bottom of Hamish's tiny feet.

"N'xt, Daddy?"

Sherlock smiled down at the little boy with an affectionate gaze. "Of course," he murmured, leaning forward to press another quick kiss to Hamish's hair.

 

 

After spending the rest of the day lounging around the house, Sherlock and Hamish were curled up on the couch, watching a type of documentary on fish, which were, undoubtedly, Hamish's favorite animals.

Sherlock was absentmindedly rubbing circles over his son's hand as he held the little boy close, barely taking notice as the light quickly slipped away outside.

The program quickly ended with the narrator telling the audience: "And so, in the end, the dolphin was returned safely to her family." Hamish smiled for a moment, humming contently with the ending of the program.

Eyelids drooping slightly, he leaned into Sherlock's arm, staring at the screen as he watched the various types of sea animals scrolling through the credits. Suddenly, though, as if remembering something, the little boy's eyebrows pulled together, and he frowned.

"Daddy?" he asked quietly, tugging at the detective's fingers.

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Umm... Daddy, what fam'ry?"

Sherlock paused, not expecting his son to ask this question. Taking a deep breath, he shifted on the couch, pulling Hamish onto his lap and leaning back so he could see Hamish's face.

"Hamish," he began softly, gazing into the little boy's deep green eyes. "A family is a group of people who love each other very much... A family is also anyone who is related by blood, but the word really implies the presence of love. Think you understand?"

Hamish paused for a moment, leaning forward to his head against Sherlock's shoulder as he thought. "'Es, Daddy... Daddy fam'wrly?"

"Do I have a family?" the detective murmured, gently twirling some of his son's hair between his fingers.

"'Es, Daddy..."

"You're my family," Sherlock murmured simply, placing a tender hand on the little boy's back.

"Daddy no Mummy an' Daddy fam'wrly?"

Sherlock gazed down at Hamish, a sad smile on his lips. "No, Hamish... My Mummy and Daddy are not quite like us. They were never very kind or loving towards me... So we don't really love each other in the same way that you and I love each other. Understand?"

"Sad, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, pulling away from the detective's shoulder. Bottom lip quivering, he placed both of his chubby hands to Sherlock's collarbone, pulling himself into a standing position.

"Oh, Hamish," the detective sighed sadly as he stared into his son's watery eyes. "No, Hamish... I'm not sad anymore. Because now I have a family. I have you. And I wouldn't trade that for the world... Please don't cry." With gentle fingers, Sherlock brushed his knuckles just under Hamish's eyes, wiping away a tear that had slid free. "I don't want you to be sad for me..." he murmured, allowing his thumb to rest against the little boy's smooth cheek.

"No sad, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, leaning into his father's gentle touch.

"No," Sherlock whispered, giving his son a reassuring smile. "I'm not sad anymore, Hamish."

Staring into his father's grey eyes, Hamish leaned forward, resting his head against Sherlock's cheek. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered quietly, grabbing onto the collar of the detective's shirt. "Daddy sad, Hame sad."

Sherlock stared down at Hamish, the burning feeling of tears stinging his eyes. "Hamish," he whispered, leaning down to lay his head on top of his son's. "Listen... I don't ever want you to be sad for me, all right? I want you to be happy, and I never want you to feel sadness just because I do... Can you promise me that?"

"... 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered against Sherlock's skin. "Prom'kiss."

Despite the sadness he felt, the detective couldn't help but smile. "Thank you," he murmured, pressing his lips to Hamish's curls in a loving kiss. "I love you very much."

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish sighed, nodding against his father's cheek. "Hame 'ove Daddy... Much. So Hame fam'wrly, Daddy?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, leaning back so he could see the little boy's face. "You have lots of people who love you... There's me, and John... Mycroft, Mary Uncle Lestrade, Aunt Molly... So you kind of have a big family because there's so many people who love you." Hamish managed a small smile at this. He leaned forward, wrapping his chubby arms around the detective's neck. "Hame 'ove fam'wrly," he whispered, nuzzling into Sherlock's skin. "So... All fam'wrly 'ove... An' Daddy fam'wrly mud?"

"You mean by blood?" Sherlock laughed, running a hand up and down the little boy's back. He froze, however, upon remembering that he and Hamish were not technically related by blood... Suddenly unable to breath, the detective felt a constricting weight crushing down on his chest with the utter sadness of the thought.

Hamish, who had shifted in Sherlock's arms, having sensed his change in demeanor, leaned back, staring worriedly up at his father. "Daddy?" he cried fearfully upon seeing the stricken look on his father's face.

Trying desperately to catch his breath, Sherlock turned his attention to Hamish's face, focusing on his son's beautiful, comforting features. "Yes," he managed to breath eventually. "I'm sorry, Hamish... I just... Had a bit of a fright. I'm all right, though, I promise."

"... 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish said skeptically, staring worriedly at the detective. "So Daddy an' Hame mud?" he continued quietly, gazing warily at his father.

Sherlock paused, staring sadly at the little boy in his arms. Deciding it would be best not to deny the inevitable, the detective took a deep breath to steady himself and stood up off the couch, moving Hamish to his hip.

"Hamish?" he began gently, pulling the little boy closer. "Have you ever heard the word 'adopted?'" he asked slowly, gently swaying back and forth as he watched Hamish's face, gauging his expressions for a specific reaction.

"Dp'ted, Daddy?" he asked confusedly, one hand clutching onto Sherlock's shirt, the other resting on his shoulder blade, hovering just over the concealed scar. "No, Daddy," he whispered.

Sherlock stared at his son's precious face, and heaved a mournful sigh. "Hamish... Do you remember when I told you that babies grow up their Mummy's tummies before they're born?" A nod. "And do you remember how the baby has a little bit of their Mummy and a little bit of their Daddy in them?" Another nod. "Good," Sherlock whispered, taking a moment to press his lips to his son's temple, bracing himself for what was to come. Taking a shaky breath, he continued. "Well... Sometimes... There are some Mummies and Daddies that either can't have kids or don't want to go through the process... There are lots of factors. Umm... Anyway. Well when that happens, the Mummy and Daddy can go to something called an orphanage. Do you understand so far?"

Hamish nodded slowly, mind working vigorously to try and figure out where this conversation was going. Instinct sensing something bad was coming, his eyes were already beginning to fill with tears and his grip around the detective had tightened.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, sensing his son's fear. "It's all right," he murmured, pressing Hamish close in a tender hug. "Do you want me to continue?"

After a long paused, Hamish nodded against his father's chest. "Es 'ease, Daddy."

"All right... Orphanages. Well, and orphanage is where children live who don't have any parents... So Mummies and Daddies wanting to be parents can go to an orphanage, and find out which child they wish to take home. When this happens, it's called adopting. So the Mummy and Daddy will take their new son or daughter home. And they become a family... They love the child just as much as any other family, and they're no different, except that the Mummy and Daddy the child lives with didn't make them... So children who are adopted live with parents who love them... But they're not related by blood. They're connected through their love of each other... Hamish? Are you all right?"

The little boy had started to cry, silently sobbing into Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hamish?" Sherlock cried, now frantic. He urged the little boy to look at him. "Hamish, please tell me what's wrong! Why're you crying?"

Sniffling and with tears streaming down his sweet face, Hamish pulled away from the detective's shoulder, knuckles turning white as he gripped into his father's shirt. "Daddy," he sighed sadly, staring at Sherlock with watery eyes. "Hame dp'ted?" he whispered, bottom lip quivering as he waited for his father's answer.

Suddenly, the detective couldn't stop his own stream of tears. "Yes," he managed to whisper, heart constricting in his chest as Hamish started to cry once again. "I'm so sorry, Hamish," he sobbed, pressing the little boy close. Feeling lightheaded, he quickly sat down on the couch, clutching the little boy close. "I'm so... So sorry... Please, please... Don't cry... I love you, Hamish. I still love you very much. And nothing in the world is ever going to change that."

Suddenly, though he was still sniffling madly, Hamish stopped crying. A confused look on his tear-stained face, he gazed up at Sherlock, mouth drawn in a sad frown. "Daddy 'till 'ove Hame?" he asked incredulously, watery eyes wide with hope.

For a moment, Sherlock was frozen, unable to breath as he heard his son's question. "Oh, Hamish," he sighed sadly, understanding now that Hamish was not crying because he was adopted... The little boy was crying because he thought his father would no longer love him anymore. "Hamish, look at me," Sherlock whispered gently, unable to help himself as a few more tears slid free.

"'Ove, Daddy?" was all the little boy asked as he clung desperately to the detective.

"Hamish," Sherlock murmured, placing an incredibly tender hand to the side of the little boy's face. "I need you to listen to me... I will never—never—love you any less just because you're adopted. Whether we're related by blood or by love, you are my son. And I love with with all my heart... And nothing is ever going to change that... Please don't cry, Hamish. I love you so much... And you need to know that... I have always loved you and I will always be here to love and protect you. No matter what... So please just... Don't cry," he murmured, unable to help how broken he sounded.

"Daddy?" Hamish whispered sadly, staring at his father's sad, tear-stained face... "No Daddy sad 'ease... Hame 'ove. No care dp'ted. Hame 'ove." With tender hands, the little boy carefully grabbed Sherlock's fingers. "'Isten, Daddy." The detective watched with gentle eyes as Hamish moved his hand, placing it on his tiny chest.

"Heart, Daddy," the little boy whispered, reaching forward to let his hand rest over his father's heart. "'Ove, Daddy... Have 'ove here..."

Amazed by his son once again, Sherlock closed his eyes, moving his other hand to cover the fingers Hamish had pressed against his chest. He focused on the feeling of his hand resting against the little boy's skin... On the feeling of Hamish's head covering his heart... The feeling of connection between their hearts.

"You're right, Hamish," he finally managed to whisper, opening his eyes to gaze down at the little boy. "We have love in our hearts... I'm so proud of you, Hamish... And I love you very much. With all of my heart." He gave Hamish a reassuring smile, and gently closed his hand around the little boy's fingers, giving them a squeeze. "Come here," he murmured, as another tear quickly slid free... Though this time, it was a tear of happiness.

Eager for his father's embrace, Hamish quickly rushed forward, pressing himself as close to the detective as he could. "Hame 'ove, Daddy... 'Ease no sad?" he whispered against Sherlock's chest, voice muffled by the fabric.

Despite his conflicting emotions, the detective couldn't help but smile. He bent down, pressing an incredibly gentle kiss to Hamish's soft curls. "No, Hamish," he whispered, pulling the little boy even closer. "I'm not sad... And I love you, too. Very much... Thank you, Hamish... Are you all right?" he asked gently, keeping his arms wrapped around his son's tiny body as he leaned back, gazing down into the little boy's face. He felt a wave of relief wash over him as he saw that Hamish was no longer crying anymore, but rather that there was a small smile gracing his lips.

"'Es, Daddy. Hame good ah'c'se Daddy 'ove."

"You're good because I still love you?" Sherlock murmured, a small smile playing on his lips.

"'Es, Daddy... Hame help Daddy good?" It took the detective a moment to realize that Hamish was referring to the tears still resting on his face. "I would love that, Hamish," he whispered, giving the little boy's hand a gentle squeeze.

"'Kay, Daddy..." Smiling reassuringly at his father, Hamish slowly leaned forward, using Sherlock's shoulders to pull himself into a standing position. "'Ove," he whispered, brushing away some of the tears on one of his father's cheeks. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the detective's cheekbone. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered again.

"Hmm," Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes as he felt Hamish's chubby fingers brushing against his skin.

"'Ove, Daddy," the little boy whispered again once he was done with his father's other cheek. Just as before, he leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to the detective's sharp cheekbone. One of his chubby hands was resting over Sherlock's lips.

The detective smiled against his son's gentle touch, feeling a warmth spread through his body as Hamish pressed a gentle kiss to each of his eyelids and then one last kiss to his lips.

"'Etter, Daddy?" he whispered hopefully, each hand resting on one of Sherlock's cheekbones.

"Yes," the detective whispered quietly. He slowly opened his eyes, finding comfort as he stared into his son's precious face. "I'm much better now... Thank you so much, Hamish. I love you." A loving smile tugging at his lips, Sherlock leaned down, mimicking his son, and pressed a gentle kiss to each of Hamish's eyelids, that same fluttering dancing through his chest as he felt the little boy's fingers curl against his skin. "I love you," he murmured again, pressing one last kiss to Hamish's lips.

"Good, Daddy," the little boy thanked, keeping his hands against his father's cheeks. Sherlock grinned down at his son, another feeling of relief washing over him. "We're going to be okay..." he whispered, brushing his fingertips over Hamish's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy." And with one last final kiss to the hand his father had over his heart, Hamish quickly fell asleep, resting peacefully in Sherlock's arms with all of the love the detective could have possibly given him.

"Goodnight, Hamish... I love you."


	28. A Baby

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Baby

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of John bustling up the stairs. Even in his hazy state, the detective could tell his friend was in a hurry, his footsteps quick and light on the wooden stairs.

"What is it, John?" he whispered, not even bothering to open his eyes as he could tell it was still it was still dark outside.

"It's Molly," John breathed, taking note of Hamish's sleeping form on Sherlock's chest. "She's gone into labour and she would like us to be at the hospital with her. "

"Oh. Uhh... Of cour—right," the detective mumbled awkwardly, sitting up on the couch. "I'll need to get him ready first, though." He gave a tiny nod to the little boy sleeping in his arms.

"Sure, sure," John whispered back, trying not to wake Hamish. "Well, I'm going to head over, seeing as she's got no one there right now. Umm... I suppose just text me when you're on your way and I'll let you know which room she's in."

"Good. Yes. How uhh—" The detective cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "How long do you think—I mean—for Hamish..."

"Just depends on the woman, Sherlock," John chuckled, giving his friend a knowing look. "Just head over whenever you're ready. I'll be sure to let you know if anything major happens."

"Yes."

"Right then. See you." With a small nod of his head and a smile at Hamish's sleeping form, the doctor quickly slipped out of the flat, disappearing into the brisk night.

Sherlock gazed after him, listening to the quiet of the flat. "Hospital. Right... Yes," he murmured to himself, slowly getting up off the couch as he took a deep, tired breath. "Well, Hamish... It looks like you're finally going to get to meet Molly's baby." The detective couldn't help but smile as he imagined his son's reaction. "Mmm," he sighed tiredly, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's curls.

Wanting to give Hamish the opportunity to sleep more, Sherlock slipped away into his room, gently placing the little boy under the covers. "There we go," he whispered, running his fingertips over Hamish's cheek. With a small smile, the detective quickly pulled back, grabbing a new set of clothes and disappeared from the room.

After getting dressed, Sherlock quickly put together a bag for Hamish, and pulled on his coat and scarf.

 

 

"Hamish? Hamish, I need you to wake up for me," Sherlock murmured, gently pulling the little boy out of bed and into his arms.

Eyes fluttering open, Hamish moaned quietly, unhappy at having been woken up at such an early hour. "Mmm... No, Da'ey," he whispered, shaking his head against the detective's arm. "No 'ease..."

"I know," Sherlock chuckled, giving the little boy an affectionate pat on the back. "But we have to go the hospital to see Molly; she's having her baby right now and would like us to come visit her."

"What, Da'ey?" Hamish asked tiredly, closing his eyes and leaning his weight into the detective as he tried to fall asleep once again.

"...Nothing," Sherlock murmured lovingly, pressing his son's tired form closer. "You can rest. I'll get us ready."

"Mmm-hmm."

With careful movements, Sherlock slowly lowered Hamish onto the bed again and managed to tug off his nappy without waking him and then quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Smiling at his son's tiny form, the detective quickly left the room, grabbing Hamish's tiny coat and hurried back, wrapping the little boy in the fabric. "Here we are," he whispered, pulling Hamish back into his arms.

"Tie, Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly, awoken by the movement.

"Yes. Up time."

"'Kay, Daddy... No like."

Sherlock laughed, moving Hamish to his hip as he left the bedroom. "Sorry," he chuckled, finding the diaper bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "I know; it's pretty early, isn't it?"

"Mmm-hmm. What, Daddy?"

"What are we doing up this early?" Sherlock asked, pausing in the middle of the kitchen to gaze questioningly at Hamish.

"'Es, Daddy. What?"

"Well," the detective sighed dramatically, bending down to set the little boy on the ground. Almost smiling in anticipation, Sherlock took each of Hamish's hands in his own, to hold him steady, and stared into the little boy's deep green eyes. "We have to go to the hospital," he stated seriously, trying to conceal his smile.

"What, Daddy?" Hamish gasped anxiously, suddenly very alert.

"Because," Sherlock whispered slyly, a small grin spreading across his face as he gave his son's hands a gentle squeeze. "Molly's at the hospital right now having her baby."

Hamish gasped, his eyes widening in amazement as he grasped onto his father's fingers, all traces of tiredness quickly disappearing. "See baby?" he asked incredulously, already beginning to vibrate with excitement.

"Yes!" Sherlock encouraged, grinning at his son. "Ready now?"

"'Es, 'es, Daddy! Go," Hamish cheered determinedly, tugging at the detective's fingers.

"Okay, okay. I'm coming, I promise. Just give me a moment," Sherlock chuckled, releasing his son's fingers and standing up. "All right... Uhh... Do you want any books to bring with you?" he asked, turning around to grab a children's cup for the cab ride.

"No, Daddy..." A pause. "'Es, Daddy. Hen an' ducky," Hamish called, bouncing up and down as he toddled around the flat in excitement.

"Little Red Hen and the Ugly Duckling. Good... Hamish, please don't run near the stairs, the gate is not—" The detective was cut off by a loud crash followed by a tiny whimper. "Hamish!" Sherlock called worriedly, coat billowing behind him as he ran towards the stairs. "Hamish, are you all right?" he cried, upon seeing the little boy in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy," Hamish said confusedly, pushing himself up off of the ground and then wincing as he tried to use his arm. "Ouch, Daddy," he whimpered just as the detective reached him.

"Shh, I know. Let me see it," Sherlock whispered, crouching down by the little boy. "What hurts?"

Lips pulled into a frown, Hamish pointed to his elbow, staring up at his father with teary, expectant eyes.

"Your elbow, hmm?" With tender fingers, Sherlock slowly lifted his son's arm up, inspecting the damage. He sighed in relief as he saw that there was just a small red patch on the little boy's arm; the skin hadn't even broken from the fall. "You're okay," he murmured, pulling Hamish into his arms. "And you're sure nothing else hurts? Just your elbow?"

"'Es, Daddy. Hame 'kay," the little boy reassured cheerfully.

"Good. I'm sorry," Sherlock apologized quietly, staring guiltily at the red on his son's skin. "It's my fault, Hamish. I should have remembered to put the gate back up. I'm sorry you fell down... Are you sure you're all right?"

"Mmm," the little boy thought for a moment, grabbing ahold of the collar on the detective's coat. "Kiss?" he asked hopefully, already moving his elbow towards his father.

"Of course. I'll give it a kiss to make it better." Not wanting to hurt his son further, Sherlock leaned forward, barely pressing his lips to Hamish's skin. "There we go," he murmured, pulling back. "Better?"

The little boy grinned, bending up to press a kiss of his own to the corner of Sherlock's lips. "'Es, Daddy. 'Etter."

"Good. I'm glad... Well. I do believe we're ready to go. What do you say? Would you like to go meet Molly's baby?"

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy!" Hamish called happily, remembering once again where they were going.

"Excellent."

 

 

Hamish sat comfortably on Sherlock's lap throughout the entire cab ride, sucking happily at his cup of water as he leaned against the detective's stomach, eyes threatening to fall shut at any moment.

"Just a few more minutes," Sherlock reassured, giving Hamish's middle a gentle squeeze.

"Mmmkay, Daddy.

 

 

Shortly after arriving at the hospital, Sherlock managed to find Molly's room. There were three chairs set up outside of the door, two of which were seating John and Mycroft.

"Oh," the detective sighed upon seeing his brother. He gently placed Hamish on the ground, allowing him to run over to his uncle.

"My!" he called excitedly, reaching his chubby arms up towards him.

"Yes," Mycroft chuckled, placing his umbrella against the wall as he bent down to pick the giggling boy up. "Hello, Hamish. How have we been, hmm?"

"Hame an' Daddy good!" Hamish called excitedly, grabbing onto his uncle's tie.

"Shh," both Sherlock and Mycroft chuckled at the same time.

"We must be quiet here," Mycroft said quietly, putting a finger to his lips to show the little boy to be quiet. "Okay?"

"Oh," Hamish whispered almost guiltily. "'Kay, My... Seep?"

"Umm, I don't quite—" Mycroft began, unsure of what the little boy was asking.

"He's asking if you're sleepy," Sherlock translated, giving his son a warm smile.

"Ta, Daddy. 'Es, My."

"No, I'm not sleepy," Mycroft chuckled, moving Hamish to his hip as he started to walk down the hallway, giving his brother and John some time alone. "Why? Are you sleepy?" The faint response of the little boy's tiny voice could just barely be heard as Mycroft disappeared further down the hallway.

Sherlock watched after them with fond eyes, taking little notice when John hurried up beside him.

"Well," the doctor sighed, glancing at the closed door. "Mary's in there with her right now. As far as I know, everything's going well but—"

"I told him, John."

The doctor froze, turning his attention to the detective standing next to him. "Oh," he sighed eventually in realization, face sliding into an expression of understanding. "How'd he take it?"

Sherlock stared at the ground, grey eyes guilty and embarrassed. "He... He thought I wouldn't love him anymore, John... He thought I wouldn't love him. Am I doing something wrong?" the detective asked, now suddenly frantic. "I must not have done enough if he actually thought I wouldn't love him anymore just because he doesn't share my DNA. Should I have done more to show him how much I love him? Because I do, John. I love him with all of my heart, it's just... I—I just—Wonder if maybe he wouldn't have been better someplace else with—"

"Sherlock! No. No. You know that's not true. I mean, have you seen how happy that little boy is? He knows you love him, Sherlock. Trust me... He knows how much you love him. And nothing, from the way he looks to the blood in his veins is going to change that... And he knows that, Sherlock... And don't you dare think for one second that that beautiful little boy could possibly be happier anywhere else. Blood-related or not, he is your son. And nothing is ever going to change that."

Sherlock was stunned into silence. Mouth hanging open and eyes nearly filling with tears, the detective stared at his flat mate, gratefulness welling in his eyes. John, himself, had also been stunned into silence, amazed at his own outburst. "Sorry," he mumbled awkwardly.

"No," Sherlock breathed, smiling as he ran John's words through his head. "Thank you, John... Very much... That uhh... Was good."

"Good," the doctor echoed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Thank you... I just uhh... Yes well—" John was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. Both flat mates turned around to see Mary, a wide grin on her face. "It's a girl," she breathed excitedly, hurrying forward to wrap her arms around John's shoulders. "She did so well, John."

"And everything is good, I assume?" the doctor asked, planting a quick kiss to his fiancé's cheek.

"Yes," Mary sighed thankfully. "Everything's wonderful. They're just cleaning both of them up right now and then you can go in. Oh! Hello Sherlock! Where's Hamish gone?" she asked, glancing up and down the hallway.

"Oh, uhh, Mycroft's taken him for a moment," Sherlock informed, giving Mary a small smile.

"Oh. Right, good."

"Speaking of," John murmured, as the sound of Hamish's tiny voice came back into earshot. All three turned to gaze at the end of the corridor and saw Mycroft, walking hand in hand with Hamish down the hallway.

"Really? Is that so?" Mycroft chuckled, gazing down at his nephew.

"Mmm-hmm. An'—Daddy!" the little boy cried excitedly upon seeing his father. Grinning and giggling, Hamish ran down the length of the hallway, jumping into his father's open arms. "Molly baby?" he asked hopefully, tiny hands curling around the soft fabric of Sherlock coat.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, smiling down at his son. "Molly had a baby girl."

Hamish's eyes widened in awe, mouthing falling open as he stared wide-eyed at Sherlock. "Real?"

"Really, really," the detective chuckled, running his fingertips over Hamish's back. "Would you like to see her?"

"Hame see?" the little boy asked incredulously, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he stared into Sherlock's eyes.

"Of course. As soon as Mary gives us the okay."

"I think you'd be fine going in now," Mary said quietly, giving Hamish a warm smile. "Have fun," she added, leaning forward to brush a thumb over the little boy's chubby cheek.

Smiling at the anticipation on his son's face, Sherlock gently pushed past John and Mary, who were still embracing, moved Hamish to his hip, and opened the door with his free hand. "Now we have to be very quiet," he whispered, raising an eyebrow at his son to make sure he understood.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good." With a small smile, Sherlock pushed open the door to Molly's room. There were a few nurses milling about in the white room, all hurrying in different directions. The detective paused once he saw the pathologist, curled up on the bed, a tiny bundle wrapped in pink resting on her chest.

The detective turned his gaze to Hamish, chuckling as he saw how overwhelmed his son looked. "Hamish?" he whispered, pulling the little boy's attention back to him, though it was clear he was having a hard time focusing with all of the movement around him.

"Hmm?" Hamish asked, gazing over Sherlock's shoulder while he stared at the door.

"Look over there," Sherlock murmured, pointing in the direction of Molly and her new baby.

"Ohh," Hamish sighed in wonder upon catching a sight of the tiny bundle pressed against her chest. Clearly too amazed to speak, the little boy just tugged at the collar of Sherlock's shirt, silently telling him to move closer.

Upon hearing the movement and voices, Molly looked up, a content smile on her face. "Oh," she sighed happily upon seeing Sherlock and Hamish. "Hello there, Hamish," she whispered, giving a tiny wave to the little boy and a warm smile to his father. "Would you like to see her?"

"'Es! 'Ease, Daddy!" Hamish called quietly, pulling at his father's coat.

"Okay, okay," Sherlock chuckled, placing his son on the ground. A small smile on his lips, the detective turned to Molly. "How would you like to do this?" he asked quietly, staring at her with expectant eyes.

"Why don't you just hold her, and then you can kneel down and let him see her?" the pathologist suggested quietly.

"Oh... Well—I'm not—I mean are you sure you want me to—"

"Of course, Sherlock," Molly chuckled, already passing the tiny baby to the detective.

"Yes, right... Okay..." With carefully, albeit nervous, hands, Sherlock gently took the resting baby from Molly's hands. He gazed down at he for a moment, trying to image what Hamish might have looked like right after he was born. He couldn't help but smile as he stared down at the sleeping bundle in his hands, noticing how, already, though pink and kind of squishy-looking, the little girl was going to grow up to look very similar to her mother.

"Okay," Sherlock sighed quietly, slowly lowering onto the ground. "Hamish," he whispered, pulling the little boy's attention back to him once again.

"Oh!" Hamish gasped upon seeing Molly's newborn in his father's hands.

"Shh, Hamish. Slow and gentle," Sherlock reminded, giving his son a warm smile.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy whispered, tiptoeing over to his father, eyes desperately trying to get a look at the infant.

"It's okay, Hamish," Sherlock encouraged, slowly moving his hands forward and down so Hamish could see better. "Do you see?" he whispered, holding the baby in front of his son's observant eyes.

Upon seeing the little baby for the first time, Hamish gasped, leaning forward to wrap his tiny hands around Sherlock's wrist. "Wow, Daddy," he whispered in utter amazement, gazing down at the little baby in his father's hand. "Want."

Neither Sherlock nor Molly could stop their laughter. "You want a baby of your own?" Sherlock chuckled, gazing into his son's awe-struck eyes.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish responded, eyes still glued to Molly's daughter. "Want."

"Well," Sherlock sighed, standing up and gently passing the baby back to her mother. "I'll be getting right on that, then," he chuckled.

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish cheered triumphantly, reaching up towards his father. "'Ease."

"All right," Sherlock murmured fondly, bending down to pick the little boy up. "You did a very good job being gentle Aunt Molly's baby," the detective said quietly, giving his son a warm, reassuring smile. "Come on, then... Let's say one last goodbye to Aunt Molly and her baby and then we need to head home; you've been up far too long tonight."

"Oh... 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sighed sadly.

"Very good. Thank you Hamish. All right... Say bye to Aunt Molly and her baby," Sherlock encouraged quietly, bending down so the little boy could see the baby's face.

"B-bye Baby," Hamish whispered, leaning forward in his father's arms to press a soft kiss to the little girl's forehead. "Good... B-bye Molly. 'Ove."

Despite her tiredness, Molly smiled warmly at Hamish. "Bye, darling. I love you, too," she whispered, giving the little boy a tiny wave. "I'll see you two later," she said, though it was more to Sherlock than to Hamish.

"Of course," the detective whispered, taking one last glance at Molly's baby. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Sherlock," Molly replied quietly, giving Sherlock a small smile.

"Of course," the detective murmured, returning the friendly smile. "We'll probably be back later today after Hamish has gotten a proper amount of sleep."

"Mmm," Molly sighed in reply, gazing down at her own baby.

With another quick smile, Sherlock quickly slipped out of the room.

 

 

Hamish fell asleep on the cab ride back to 221B, a small smile on his lips as he was no doubt dreaming or thinking about Molly's baby.

Smiling down at his son, Sherlock quickly made his way into the flat, collapsing onto his bed as the lack of sleep started to catch up with him.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked groggily, having awoken at the jostling.

"Nothing," Sherlock murmured, tenderly running his knuckles over the little boy's cheek. "Sorry I woke you..."

"Mmm. Like baby," Hamish sighed contently, snuggling into his father's warmth.

"Yes... I know," the detective murmured lovingly, eyes feeling heavy as he gazed down at his son.

"Daddy wan'?" Hamish yawned.

"Do I want another baby?"

The little boy paused, taking a moment to yawn widely before continuing. "'Es. Daddy want?"

"... No," Sherlock whispered eventually, pressing a soft kiss to Hamish's curls. "I like having just one baby... My Hamish."

"Mmm," the little boy sighed contently, a small smile gracing his lips as his eyes slid shut. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, leaning into his father as he fell asleep.

That familiar warmth spreading through his body, Sherlock pulled Hamish's tiny form closer, closing his eyes as the last bit of energy escaped. "My Hamish."


	29. Snowed In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, I don't know how many of you saw my update in the notes on the last chapter. But, just in case you didn't, I would like to apologize for not updating like I said I would. Saturday night, my computer totally freaked out, and I lost this entire chapter. I spent most of yesterday desperately trying to re-write it from scratch. =/ Anyway, but because of my stupid computer, I wasn't able to finish it in time to get it posted on Sunday. I'm so sorry about that guys, especially since there was such a huge gap between Chapter Twenty-Seven and Eight. So I sincerely apologize for that, and I greatly appreciate your understanding!
> 
> As a result, I've made this one extra-long, my longest yet, actually (which is hopefully a good thing), and I've already started writing the next chapter, so that one will be up on Thursday because I can't update on Wednesday, unfortunately. And then I'll get my updating back on track; it's been a crazy past two weeks, so I apologize for that. But thank you all so much for reviewing and just being wonderful! I really appreciate it! =) Thanks, guys!
> 
> Hope you like this chapter. =)

"Phone, Sherlock," John sighed, clearly annoyed by the ringing.

"Mmm. Yes."

Rolling his eyes, the doctor shoved himself up from his comfortable position in his chair and snatched his friend's phone, gazing at the caller ID. "Mycroft."

"Ignore it," Sherlock answered tersely, pressing his fingers closer to his lips as he thought, sprawled across the couch.

"Please. Hello? Ye—Yes, this John. Well it would appear your brother," John sighed, giving the detective a quick glare. "Is far too busy to speak with you at the moment. Yes... Oh. Well—I mean I suppose. Sure... Yes... Yes... That should be fine. Wonderful. They'll see you then." Chuckling smugly to himself, the doctor quickly ended the call, gazing at his flat mate. "You," he drawled slowly, "are going to take Hamish to—"

"No. I am not taking Hamish to his... Estate. No."

"How did—"

"I saw the text message. The answer is still no."

"Sherlock," John sighed, exasperated. "Come on. He just wants to give Hamish his Christmas presents, seeing as he won't be here for the actual occasion."

"John, no. I just—"

"You know how much it would mean to Hamish," the doctor countered quickly, glancing towards the door to Sherlock's bedroom, where the little boy was napping.

With a dramatic sigh, the detective opened his eyes, letting his hands fall to his sides as he gazed unhappily at John. "... Fine," he huffed eventually, holding his hand out for the phone.

"Good." With a smug smile, the doctor passed the mobile to his flat mate, dropping the phone into his open palm.

Sherlock waited as the phone rang, lips pressed into a thin line. "All right. I will bring him on one condition... I need specific details on a case; anything you have. And I must have full access of the library. Yes. Fine... Satisfied?" he asked, handing the phone back to John.

"Library?" the doctor asked, setting the mobile on the arm of his chair. "What's that about?" In response, Sherlock's gaze promptly fell to the ground as he absentmindedly pursed his lips. With a deep breath, as if he was going to say something, the detective cleared his throat, keeping his eyes downcast as he hurried into the kitchen, suddenly very interested in his microscope.

"Hey, wait a minute!" John called, hurrying after his friend. "What was all that about? I only asked about the library—"

Refusing to look at the doctor, Sherlock stared into his microscope, "adjusting" the magnification. "Mycroft now lives in the estate I grew up in as a young child. And, as you can imagine, there are some... Memories... I would rather not relive," the detective mumbled, eyebrows pulling together as he frowned into the lens. "That's all."

"Oh," John sighed quietly, suddenly feeling very guilty at inadvertently forcing his friend into going back to the house in which he suffered years of abuse at the hand of his father. "I'm sorry," he whispered, staring awkwardly at the ground. "I didn't know."

"I understand, John. It's all right. Hamish will enjoy it... So I can go," Sherlock murmured, gaze quickly flicking towards his door.

"You're sure?"

"... Yes." The doctor couldn't help but notice the slight pause of hesitation.

"Right... Well, I should probably go and wake him up," John said quietly, nodding towards his friend's bedroom.

"Thank you." The detective waited for the sound of his door gently bumping shut before pulling away from the microscope. Face drawn together into an almost pained expression, Sherlock slowly walked over to the window, placing a hand in his pocket as he gazed out at the grey afternoon, mulling over the inevitable trip. "For Hamish," he whispered determinedly, giving a firm nod of his head as he steadied himself, clearing his mind of the memories and thoughts threatening to take over.

"Daddy?" came the soft call of Hamish, voice cracking with sleep.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile fondly at hearing his son's voice. "I'm just here, Hamish," he called back, turning around to see John, the little boy resting tiredly on his hip, coming in through the kitchen.

"Mmm... Da'ey," he sighed sleepily, practically falling out of the doctor's grasp as he leaned forward, stretching his chubby arms towards Sherlock.

"All right... All right," the detective chuckled, pulling his hand out of his pocket as he reached forward, taking the little boy from John's arms. "There we are. Did you have a good rest, Hamish?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, snuggling against the base of his father's neck as he yawned, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

"Good." With a small smile, Sherlock gave his son an affectionate pat on the back. He quickly glanced at John, raising his eyebrows in question. The doctor replied with a reassuring smile and a slight shake of his head.

"Right, then. Hamish? I have a question for you... Mycroft has requested that we come over to his house so that he might give you your Christmas early, seeing as he will not actually be here Christmas morning." Both John and Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle out loud at the utterly lost look on Hamish's face, unable to keep up with his father's rapid speaking.

"My?" he asked confusedly, desperately trying to sort through Sherlock's long dialogue.

"Yes," John chuckled, gazing fondly at the little boy. "Daddy's going to take you to Mycroft's for presents," he translated, giving Hamish a warm smile.

"Oh. My, Daddy," he informed Sherlock cheerfully, cheek bumping against the detective's shoulder as he leaned forward, still tired.

"Yes, thank you Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, brushing his hand over his son's auburn curls. "What do you think? Would you like to?"

"'Es 'ease Daddy! Unk My!"

Despite his uneasiness, Sherlock smiled down at his son, subconsciously pulling him closer in an effort to calm his worries. "Right... Let's go get ready, then, I suppose," he said, giving Hamish a cheerful pat on the bottom.

"'Kay, Daddy."

"Good. How about you go with John and I'll get everything we'll need, hmm?"

"'Kay," Hamish replied cheerfully, stretching his arms towards the doctor.

"There we are," Sherlock sighed, passing the little boy to John. "Here we go," he added, watching as the two disappeared into the kitchen.

 

 

Nearly thirty minutes later, after dealing with a tiny fit from Hamish at being forced to wear clothes, Sherlock and the little boy were loaded into a cab, two large bags placed on the floor.

"Have everything?" John asked, leaning into the cab.

"I think so. We should be back later tonight, but there's a chance of snow, so I've brought an extra pair of clothes just in case—Hamish do not pull off your shirt. We've already talked about this; you must wear your clothes until we get there." With a small pout, the little reluctantly released the fabric, staring at the ground. "Thank you." He turned back to John. "Yes, I do believe we have everything we need. Thank you, John. Enjoy the quiet," he chuckled, giving his friend a knowing look

"Hmm," John hummed contently, already reveling in the idea. "Trust me. I will."

"Right... Well then! I think we'd best be off," Sherlock said, trying to sound cheerful as he turned back to gaze at Hamish, who was now on the other side of the cab, his chubby face pressed against the window.

"Hmm? Oh! Go, Daddy?" he asked excitedly, haphazardly crawling back towards his father.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, pulling the little boy onto his lap. "Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm! Go, Daddy!" Hamish cried bouncing on the detective's legs.

"Yes, yes, okay. Goodbye, John." Sherlock managed a warm smile, hoping he looked more confident than he felt.

"Bye, you two. B-bye Hamish!" John called softly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Have fun at Uncle Mycroft's."

"'Es, John. Ba-bye!"

Smiling at his flat mate's son, John stepped back and quickly pushed the door shut.

 

 

The cab ride to Mycroft's estate was long and isolated.

Though bouncing with excitement at the beginning of the journey, crawling back and forth across the cab to get the best view, Hamish was now weary from the long time spent in the car, and was huddled close to his father's side, deep green eyes gazing tiredly out of the window as he grasped onto the detective's arm.

"Daddy," he groaned quietly, burying his face in fabric of Sherlock's soft coat.

"I know," the detective whispered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as they drew nearer and nearer. "Almost there. Would you prefer to sit on my lap?"

"Mmm. 'Es 'ease, Daddy." With a tiny grunt of effort, Hamish released his grip around Sherlock's arm, and pulled himself onto the detective's legs. "Good, Daddy," he sighed in response, resting contently against his father's chest as he continued to stare out the window, watching as the countryside whizzed by.

"Mmm, "Sherlock hummed in response, eyes anxiously flitting back and forth between the windows.

Hearing his father's lack of response and feeling the detective's tense form, Hamish's eyebrows pulled together in worry. He gazed up at Sherlock, using his shirt as a way to pull himself into a standing position. "Ah!" he cried upon releasing the fabric and nearly falling backwards from the bumps in the road.

"Oh!" Instantly, Sherlock reached forward, grabbing his son's arm with one hand and supporting him from the back with the other. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured, giving the little boy a weak smile.

Sensing that something was clearly wrong, Hamish frowned, falling forward with another bump. His chubby fingers splayed across Sherlock's cheek and neck as he examined the detective with worried eyes. "What, Daddy?" he whispered quietly, staring earnestly into his father's light eyes.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing Hamish, I was just—"

"No, Daddy," Hamish said firmly, moving one of his hands to cover the detective's lips. "What?"

Sherlock paused, staring sadly into his son's observant eyes. "I'm just nervous," he murmured, pulling Hamish's fingers away from his mouth and wrapping them safely in his own. "The place Mycroft lives... That's where I grew up with my Mummy and Daddy. There were just some bad things that happened there, that's all. And I'm only a little worried about it... I promise. I'm all right," Sherlock reassured, pulling his son's fingers back to his lips. "See?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the little boy's palm. "I'm okay."

"Mmm," Hamish hummed skeptically, clearly unconvinced. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, absentmindedly playing with a lock of his father's raven hair.

 

 

"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, thanking and paying the cab driver. He watched, worrying his lip as the car drove away, leaving him with several bags and a wide-eyed Hamish in front of his brother's large estate.

"Daddy," the little boy sighed, almost fearfully, as he gazed up at the large mansion-like home. Intimidated by the sheer size of his uncle's estate, Hamish scooted closer to Sherlock, who had the bags slung over each of his shoulders, and gripped tightly to the fabric of his trousers, hiding behind the detective's legs.

"It's all right, Hamish," Sherlock reassured gently, looking back and down over his shoulder to give his son a reassuring smile. "I'm just here. You can take my hand." Shifting the large bags ever so slightly, the detective reached down, feeling a strange twinge of sadness as he felt the little boy grip onto his fingers with both hands, still hiding behind his leg.

"Here we go." With a deep breath, and giving his son's hand a gentle squeeze, Sherlock moved forward. He couldn't help but feel the urge to protect Hamish as he noticed how tiny, how innocent... How vulnerable the little boy seemed, hiding behind his leg as they made their way up the steps. "I'm just here," he repeated softly.

With frightened eyes, Hamish followed closely behind his father, clinging to the detective with both of his hands.

Not bothering to knock, as he knew his brother was already expecting them, Sherlock pushed open one of the large double doors, holding it open so Hamish could hurry inside.

"There we are," he murmured, quickly placing the bags on the ground so he could pull the little boy into his arms, opting to have him close, rather than on the ground, though the action went almost completely unnoticed by Hamish, as he was staring wide-eyed at the interior of the estate, which was much less ominous than the exterior. The walls were decorated with intricate gold designs, and several antique chairs and couches were scattered across the large entrance room.

"Ah. Excellent. I see you made it here safely," came the drawling voice of Mycroft. Sherlock turned in the direction of his brother's voice, gazing in the dim light at Mycroft's dark form, sitting in one of the chairs.

"Yes," the detective murmured, moving Hamish, who was still amazed by his new surroundings, to his hip. "We're fine. I understand you have some presents you wish to give Hamish?"

"Now, now, no need to rush. I trust you'll be staying for dinner?"

"I don't really—"

"Unk My!" Hamish gasped suddenly, seeing his uncle for the first time. He tugged at the collar of Sherlock's coat, silently asking to be put down. With a tiny eye roll, the detective gently lowered his son onto the floor.

"Hello there, Hamish!" Mycroft called cheerfully, pulling the little boy into a tight hug. "What do you say, hmm? Would you like to stay for dinner?"

In response, Hamish grinned, giggling madly in his uncle's arms. He reached forward, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's neck in a tight hug.

"Excellent. Then it's settled," he chuckled, giving Sherlock a sly smile. "You'll stay for dinner. Now. I say we go and get you both settled into a room, yes?"

"I don't need one," Sherlock said tersely, suddenly very tense as he glanced down the long corridor to their left, eyes lingering on one of the many rooms lining the walls.

"Maybe not, but he might," Mycroft said, unaware of his brother's uneasiness as he gently tickled Hamish's stomach. "Would you like to pick your room?"

"'Es, My," the little boy sighed, leaning forward to rest his head against Mycroft's shoulder.

"Wonderful."

Sherlock watched with tense eyes as his brother started to walk down the corridor, flicking on a light switch as he went. Rolling his eyes and heaving a dramatic sigh, the detective picked up the bags, trying to remain confident as he followed closely behind his brother and son.

"I don't know if you'd like to," Mycroft drawled, approaching a room. "But I thought it might rather fun if you stayed your fathe—"

"No. Absolutely not," Sherlock almost growled. "He will not be staying in that room."

"At least let him see it," Mycroft joked, pushing open the door to the room. A mixture of anger, fear and a strange need to protect Hamish rising in his chest, the detective hurried forward, ready to snatch the little boy away from his brother's arms and take him back to safety and comfort of 221B.

Sherlock froze, though, as did Mycroft upon entering the room. The air seemed very different... Dark. Sad. Hamish, who had previously been chatting away, also froze, features scrunching together in fear.

"Daddy," he whined, eyes frantically darting back and forth around the room as he reached backward, grasping the air in an attempt to find his father.

Pushing aside the painful memories flooding his mind, Sherlock hurried forward, taking Hamish into his arms. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured, pressing a comforting kiss to the little boy's curls. "Sorry." Taking one last, disdainful look at his old room, which had not changed since he left, the detective quickly pressed Hamish close to his chest and hurried back into the hallway.

"Yes, Hamish," Mycroft whispered, quickly shutting the door behind him. "I'm sorry as well."

"'Kay," the little boy sniffled against Sherlock's coat, settling further into the detective's embrace.

"Uhh... Let's continue, then, shall we?"

 

 

Eventually the three found a room which Hamish felt most comfortable in, after which Mycroft promptly had a cot (which he'd bought in preparation) in.

"We're only staying if we get snowed in," Sherlock reminded his brother warily, walking out of his son's temporary room, with the little boy still nestled tightly against him.

"Yes, I know. But I thought it was better to be safe than sorry."

"Mmm."

After moving the bags into the room and getting the cot proper placed (where Hamish had 'required' it to be), the three were on their way to dinner.

 

 

After eating, during which Hamish had refused to eat until his father ate nearly all of his own food, Mycroft was ready to give his nephew his early Christmas presents.

"Well. I think I'm going to head to the library, then," Sherlock informed the two of them quietly, as he could clearly sense that his brother was wanting a little alone time with Hamish.

"All of the information you wanted is already on the desk."

"Good. Thank you. Hamish?" the detective asked softly, bending down so he was eye level with the little boy, who had his hand wrapped around on of Mycroft's fingers. "I'm going to go to the library so I can do a little studying on the case, all right? Will you be all right with just Uncle Mycroft?"

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy giggled contently, hurrying forward to wrap his arms around his father's lowered neck. "Fun!"

"Right," Sherlock chuckled, pulling back to plant a quick kiss to Hamish's chubby cheek. "I'll be just there if you need me, all right?"

"Hmm. 'Kay, Daddy," the little boy hummed quietly, bending up to press a soft kiss to his father's chin.

"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, brushing some of the little boy's unruly curls out of his eyes. "Right then. Have fun. And I'm just down the hall if you need me."

"'Kay, Daddy. Fun," Hamish whispered, almost sadly, watching as his father started to make his way down the hallway.

"I'll try to... Thank you, Hamish."

 

 

With one quick glance at the papers on the desk, Sherlock solved the case almost immediately. He was just about to call Lestrade when he noticed that there was picture on the top of the desk… A picture of Mycroft and his father. Frowning, the detective slipped the phone back into pocket and reached forward, moving the farm closer.

Old frame, old picture. Sentiment. Well dusted. Treasured. A favorite.

Sherlock stared with a pensive gaze at the picture, staring into the eyes of his father… With a shudder as he saw the depth of those all-so-familiar irises, the detective all but threw the picture back, the prick of tears stinging his eyes as he thought about those eyes… All they had seen. All the person they belonged to had done...

"No. You are fine," he scolded himself, straightening himself and smoothing down the front of his suit. Forcing himself to clear away the painful memories, Sherlock quickly discarded his coat, and started to walk around the library, scanning the shelves for an interesting book.

Satisfied with his pick, the detective slowly meandered his way back to the desk, trying to ignore the strange feeling of eyes on his back. He opened to the first page, willing himself not to run across the house, grab Hamish and leave. "No. Read."

Sherlock didn't read a word that night.

 

 

"Ta, My!" Hamish called happily, rushing forward with a small bunny clutched between his chubby fingers.

"Oh! You're very welcome, Hamish," Mycroft chuckled happily, nearly falling back from his sitting position as the little boy ran into him. "I see you like the bunny, hmm?"

"'Es, My! Hame like!" Hamish called happily, gazing into his uncle's eyes. "Ta, My."

"Of course… My goodness! Look how late it is! How did that happen?" he chuckled, pulling Hamish against his chest as he stood up. "I say we go get ready for bed."

The little boy pouted for a moment, clutching the bunny closer. "'Kay, My," he sighed eventually, not wanting to admit his own tiredness. With a yawn he tried, but failed, to conceal, Hamish leaned against Mycroft's shoulder, lulled into a sleepy state by the warm light of the hallway and the gently swaying of his uncle as he walked.

"How about we go get your father?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Ease."

Smiling fondly at the little boy in his arms, Mycroft made his way through the large house, watching fondly as Hamish played with the ear of the bunny, murmuring contently to himself.

 

 

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called as he entered the library, pushing open the large wooden doors. He quickly glanced around the room, raising his eyebrows as he saw the detective's lean figure, gazing out of one of the few windows in the large room.

"Daddy," Hamish called tiredly, reaching his arms out towards his father.

Upon hearing his son's voice, Sherlock turned, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He managed a small smile, chuckling as he saw Hamish's tiny form practically falling out of his brother's arms.

"I'm here, Hamish," he called quietly, hurrying over and taking the little boy into his arms.

"I'm afraid you two are just going to have to stay here tonight," Mycroft drawled, passing the little boy over. "The exit's been snowed in; we have no way to get you out.

"Fine," Sherlock said tersely, pressing his son's tiny form close, eager for his comfort.

"Mmm… Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, glad to be wrapped in the familiar warmth of his father's arms. With a content smile, the little boy leaned forward, pressing his head into the space at the base of the detective's neck.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, bending down to take a deep breath, calmed by the his son's sweet smell. He shot a quick glance at Mycroft, who was now peering around the library, taking note of all of the books strewn about the floor and desk.

"Come on, then," the detective whispered, not wanting to face his brother's questions just yet. "Let's go get ready for bed."

"'Es, Daddy."

Pressing Hamish close, Sherlock quickly hurried out of the room, embarrassed by the aftershocks of his emotion. "Ohh," he sighed gratefully, once in the hallway. Pressing his eyes closed, the detective took a deep breath, in an effort to steady himself. He tried to find reassurance in the feel of Hamish's cheek pressed against his skin. With a quiet sniffle, Sherlock reached for his eyes, wiping away the evidence of his sorrow.

"Did you have good time with Mycroft?" he managed after a few moments.

"Mmm-hmm. 'Ny," Hamish replied as cheerfully as he could, holding up a tired arm.

"Wow look at that," Sherlock sighed, feigning amazement. "You got a bunny, didn't you? That's wonderful, Hamish."

Smiling fondly at his son's tired from, the detective started to walk forward, slowly making his way down the dimly-lit hallway. "I'm glad you had a good time," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the little boy's curls.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, nuzzling against his father's skin. "Got 'ny."

Sherlock chuckled, opening the door to what was, for the night, Hamish's room. He sighed in relief as he remembered that it had absolutely no resemblance to his own room. "All right," he sighed quietly, lowering to the ground, as there was no baby-changing station. The detective chuckled as Hamish's head lolled to the side, overcome by his tiredness as he yawned.

"It's been a long day, hmm?" Sherlock asked gently, tugging off the little boy's trousers and shirt. Gazing fondly at his son, the detective quickly changed the little boy's nappy. "Ready?" he whispered, pulling Hamish's almost-limp form into his arms.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned into his father's touch.

"Good," Sherlock whispered, smiling affectionately as he walked over to the crib, starting to lower Hamish into the crib. He stopped suddenly as he heard the little boy gasp and felt his tiny fingers wrapping around his own.

"Daddy," Hamish whispered, sounding almost fearful. He gripped onto Sherlocks' fingers, eyes quickly filling with tears as he stared into his father's eyes, silently begging him not to leave.

"Okay, okay," the detective whispered hurriedly, instantly pulling Hamish back to his chest. "What's wrong, Hamish?" he asked worriedly, running a comforting hand over the little boy's bare back.

Clutching onto his father's suit jacket, the little boy started to sniffle, and he pressed himself even closer to the detective. "No 'ease 'eave, Daddy," Hamish whispered, scrunching his eyes shut as he clung to Sherlock's chest.

"Oh, Hamish," the detective sighed sadly, hugging his son even closer. "I won't leave... I'll stay with you. I know; it's a bit scary here, isn't it?" he asked softly, hoping to ease Hamish's discomfort. Gently swaying back and forth, Sherlock made his way to the corner of the room where there sat an old rocking chair. "Here we are... See? I'm right here," he murmured, settling into the cushions.

"No 'eave?" Hamish asked quietly, still clinging to the detective.

"No. I'm not leaving," Sherlock reassured, bending back to give the little boy a comforting smile. "Promise."

"...'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sighed, relaxing in his father's arms. "Vl'n?" he asked hopefully.

"Play my violin?" Sherlock murmured, running his thumb over the little boy's smooth skin. "I'm sorry, Hamish. I don't have it with me… But I could sing if you'd like. Would that work?" he asked gently.

"Mmm. 'Es 'ease, Daddy."

"Of course." With a loving gaze, Sherlock started to rock back and forth in the chair, allowing Hamish to crawl up towards his face. Sighing contently, the small boy wrapped his arms around the detective's neck; he pressed his cheek against Sherlock's jaw, closing his eyes as he got comfortable. "Mmm. 'Kay Daddy."

"Right." With a quiet breath, the detective placed one hand on his son's tiny back and started to hum a soft, airy tune, one he'd written for Hamish shortly after the little boy had come to live with him.

Enjoying the soothing sound of his father's smooth voice, Hamish's eyes slowly slid shut and he breathed in time with the gentle rocking, body moving against the detective's as he shifted back and forth. "Da," he managed to whisper quietly, before going completely limp in his father's arms.

Sherlock slowly stilled his rocking, though he continued to hum the soft lullaby, tracing circles onto Hamish's bare back with one hand and gently twirling a lock of the little boy's silky hair in the other. Smiling lovingly at his son, the detective left the rocking chair, clutching Hamish close to his chest as he moved to the crib. "Sleep well," he murmured, reluctantly setting the little boy's small body in the cot. With a tender gaze, Sherlock bent over, placing a hand to the side of his son's tiny head, brushing his thumb over the little boy's eyebrow. "Wish me luck," he added, leaning down to press a loving kiss to Hamish's forehead. "Goodnight." With wistful eyes, the detective pulled away, finding the little boy's new toy, and placed the stuffed bunny next to his sleeping form. Then, moving as silently as possible, Sherlock opened one of the diaper bag, pulling out a baby monitor. He quickly clicked it on, placing the small box on a side table close to the crib and then tucked the transmitting end into his pocket.

"Sleep well, Hamish," the detective whispered, quickly slipping out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

 

 

 

"I see you found the letter," Mycroft said quietly as he heard Sherlock enter behind him, sliding the last book into its place on the shelf.

"Mmm," the detective hummed in reply, linking his hands behind his back as he moved towards his brother, squaring his jaw in defiance. "Yes." Sherlock frowned as he reached the desk, staring down at the note. "I'm glad father was able to express how proud he was of you," the detective murmured to himself.

"Is that what this was about?" Mycroft scoffed, gesturing around the room where, previously, the mess of books had been scattered about the floor.

Sherlock paused, quirking his lips in mild embarrassment. "Perhaps," he said quietly, staring across the room at his brother.

"Sherlock, really," Mycroft scolded, giving the detective a dithering book. Raising a distasteful eyebrow at his brother, the government official meandered over to the desk. "I don't understand why you become so upset every time the topic of our father comes up. And don't you think terrorizing my library was a little—"

"Mycroft," Sherlock began quietly, trying to contain the anger and contempt he felt crawling through his blood. "Did it never occur to you why I may react the way I do? Never occur to you to think about the possibility that I may actually be feeling something?"

"Oh, Sherlock, please don't be a child—"

"Perhaps," the detective continued, acting as if his brother had not even spoken. With icy eyes, he started to take slow steps towards Mycroft, voice suspiciously calm as he continued. "Perhaps... I feel the way I do because I had tried everything—everything—in my power to gain father's trust... His pride, his praise... Anything. Yet," he was nearly to his brother now, "no matter how many times I tried, how many grades I brought home, no matter what I did, Mycroft... You were always the perfect one. You were always the one he would take out to dinner. It was you who got the kisses at night, the hugs, the rewards for good work. And yet—no matter how much I succeeded and excelled—it was always you who was perfect, who was wonderful! Destined for greatness!" By now, Sherlock was practically seething, unable to contain his anger as he glared down at Mycroft, eyes burning with the hatred he felt.

"Brother, please—"

"And all because I was different!" Sherlock practically sobbed, face scruching together in a mix of resentment and sorrow. "You got lavish dinners and gifts and everything you asked for because you were the normal one. And what did I get? I got a father who, just because I was not quite like everyone else, would slip into my room in the middle of the night, unable to form a proper sentence because he was so drunk, and do unthinkable things to me while you slept away in your room down the hall. You got kisses at night, Mycroft... And what did I get? I got years and years of abuse and suffering! How do you think that made me feel every night, brother? Watching from my room as our father would stumble away into yours and plant a tender kiss to your head, after having just finished with me! How can you possibly understand how that made me feel?" Overwhelmed by the emotion flooding his body, Sherlock barely noticed as a few a hot tears slid down his cheeks. His chest was heaving as he spoke, the words and emotions he'd kept bottled inside for years finally spilling out.

"You will never understand! Never know how many times I wondered what was wrong me; wondered if I could somehow pull it out, change myself; make me into you, just so I could make the pain stop! Just so I would be able to go to sleep at night, not fearing if father was going to enter at a moment's notice! You will never know that fear, Mycroft, the helplessness one feels afterwards, the questions you ask about how your own father could do something so horrible and vile to you. You just—how?" Body shaking with anger and grief, Sherlock took a deep breath, all of the fight and anger seeming to suddenly vanish from his veins, as he paused. "How can you possibly know how that feels?" the detective whispered, the anger ebbing away as he stared at his brother's horrified face. He quickly glanced at the note on the desk. The note that congratulated Mycroft for all he had succeeded in doing in life... The letter that told of how regretful their father was that Mycroft would have to deal with a brother such as the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Damn it, Mycroft," the detective practically gasped, collapsing into a nearby chair. "Can you really not see that you were always the perfect one? Can you not see that you had the only thing I ever wanted: normalcy... How can you possibly know how that feels?" Embarrassed now by his emotional outburst, Sherlock stared at the ground, taking no notice as a few more hot tears slipped free.

Mycroft, who was stunned into silence, stared with sad eyes at his younger brother, drinking in all that the detective had just confessed. "Sherlock," he managed to whisper eventually. "I... I—I'm sorry, Sherlock... I didn't know. I didn't... I'm so sorry."

The detective sighed, chuckling darkly as he wiped the back of his hands over his cheeks, clearing away the tears. "It's all right, Mycroft, " he whispered eventually, pushing himself out of the chair and straightening his suit in an effort to regain some of his composure. "You couldn't have known."

"But I should have," Mycroft said softly, gazing at his brother's sad form. "I am sorry, Sherlock. Had I known..."

"Best not to dwell on the past," Sherlock whispered, lips twitching up in a half-hearted smile. "What's done is done... I uhh... Apologize for the books. That was... Uncalled for."

"Not at all," Mycroft said quietly, reaching forward to pat his brother's shoulder in a rare show of compassion. "Don't worry about it." In an attempt to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, the government official straightened his back, giving Sherlock a small smile. "I understand now why the Ugly Duckling was your favorite childhood book now."

The detective couldn't help but utter something between a laugh and a sob. "Yes, that does seem to explain a lot, hmm?" he chuckled, giving Mycroft a thankful smile. "Thank you," he murmured, resuming his tall composure. "I really appreciate it and—"

"Daddy?" came the muffled call of Hamish's tiny voice. Sherlock paused mid-sentence, suddenly remembering that he had the baby monitor in his pocket. "Oh," he sighed, pulling it out as he heard another frantic cry of his son's voice.

"It's all right. Go and see him," Mycroft reassured gently.

"Thank you, brother," Sherlock said sincerely, giving Mycroft a small smile before disappearing into the dark hallway.

"Hamish, shh. I'm right here," the detective whispered, hurrying into the bedroom. Sherlock almost felt as if his legs might collapse out from under him as he saw his son's tiny form reaching for him in the dark. "Hamish," he sighed in relief, quickly pulling clutching the little boy close to his chest. "I'm sorry... I'm here, it's all right now. Please don't cry..."

"Daddy," Hamish sniffled, snuggling into his father's touch.

"Yes..." Sherlock whispered, softening his grip around the little boy's body. "I'm here, Hamish... Now. What seems to be the problem, hmm?"

Content to be in the detective's arms, Hamish's sniffling ceased. "Hame had scared," the little boy whispered, staring up Sherlock with wide eyes, fistfuls of his father's shirt clutched in each of his hands.

"You were scared, hmm?" the detective murmured, cradling his son's body close to his chest. Thinking, Sherlock paused, gazing down at Hamish with soft eyes. "Come on," he whispered eventually, setting the little boy on the ground and quickly following suit so they were eye-to-eye. "Let's have a walk." Smiling wistfully at his son's beautiful face, Sherlock bent forward, pressing a tender, impromptu kiss to the corner of the little boy's lips.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed contently, reaching forward and wrapping his chubby fingers around the detective's thumb. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, a small, content smile spreading across his face as Sherlock pulled back.

"Wonderful." With fond eyes, the detective stood up, simultaneously guiding Hamish out of the room and into the hallway. "What, Daddy?" the little boy asked, though Sherlock knew his son was really asking where they were going to walk.

"Anywhere," he whispered, releasing his grasp around Hamish's hand to place his fingertips to the back of the little boy's bare back. "I'll follow."

A tiny, almost amazed smile on his face, Hamish reached out, grabbing his father's trousers with one hand for balance and started toddle forward, occasionally tilting backward, only to be caught by Sherlock's capable fingers. "There you go. Very good," the detective would whisper each time.

Sherlock watched with a loving gaze as Hamish toddled around, walking up and down countless hallways and corridors, always ready to catch the little boy when he stumbled. The detective chuckled to himself when he noticed that Hamish was starting to lose his energy; the little boy was now resting nearly all of his weight against his leg. "Here," he whispered, bending down to pull the little boy into his arms. "Let's head back, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish yawned, wrapping a chubby hand around the collar of his father's shirt. The little boy watched with tired eyes, head resting against Sherlock's shoulder as the two made their way back to the room.

"You did a very good job," the detective praised quietly, gazing at his son's tired eyes in the dim light.

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish seemed to ask.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's temple. "You did an excellent job."

"Hmm... Daddy..."

Sherlock watched with a loving gaze as Hamish's eyes started to flutter shut, opening and closing with the gentle rhythm of his father's pace. "Yes?"

"'Ove," he whispered, draping his arms over Sherlock's shoulders.

The detective smiled, a peaceful warmth running across his chest. "Thank you, Hamish," he murmured, placing a soft kiss to the top of the little boy's head. "I love you, too..."

"Hmm..." With a small smile gracing his lips, Hamish's eyes slid shut, his grip tightening around his father's neck.

 

 

Sherlock spent the rest of that night slowly walking up and down the dim corridors, absentmindedly running his fingertips over Hamish's bare back as he swayed back and forth with each step, mulling over the conversation with his brother. Though he was already beginning to feel more comfortable and calm, each time the detective passed his own room, he couldn't help but press his son's sleeping form closer, almost as if he was worried his father would jump from the door, ready to snatch the little boy from his grasp at any moment. However, each time he passed, the door remained closed, the room empty, the memories hidden.

"It'll be all right," he murmured, peering down at his son's closed eyes, the small smile that was still resting on his lips. "I love you."


	30. Christmas Eve

Chapter Thirty: Christmas Eve

"Hamish? What're you doing up?" Sherlock asked quietly, turning around on his stool to gaze at the little boy, who had just emerged from his room, hair ruffled from sleep and a tiny bunny rabbit clutched tightly in his hands. The detective's fingers were still poised over one of the knobs on his microscope as he took note of the way Hamish's cheeks were flushed a light pink and the small frown on his son's face. "What's wrong, Hamish?" he asked softly.

"Mmm," the little boy groaned unhappily, pressing a tired fist to his eyes in an attempt to rub the sleep away. "Ouch, Da'ey," he mumbled, gazing at Sherlock with sad eyes. "Owie..."

"What hurts?" the detective asked, quickly sliding off the stool and hurrying over to his son. "Do you feel like you might be sick?" he whispered, kneeling in front of the little boy.

"No, Daddy..." Frown deepening, Hamish pointed to his head as his face scrunched together in discomfort. "Daddy 'etter?" he whispered, eyes quickly filling with tears.

Sherlock smiled sadly at the little boy, running a gentle hand up and down his arm. "I can most certainly try," he whispered, pulling him close in a comforting hug. "Come on then. Let's go see if we have any medicine to help, hmm?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," Hamish mumbled sadly in reply, keeping one arm wrapped around the stuffed animal as he grabbed ahold of several of Sherlock's fingers.

"Good boy," the detective praised, giving his son's fingers a gentle squeeze. With a loving smile on his face, Sherlock stood up, gently guiding Hamish through the kitchen.

Keeping the little boy's hand wrapped safely in his own, Sherlock quickly sifted through the drawers and cabinets, trying to find some Tylenol for Hamish. "Finally!" he sighed in exasperation upon finding the bottle. "I'm sorry that took so long, Hamish," he added, quickly finding a spoon and twisting off the cap. "Here we are." With a reassuring smile, and medicine in hand, Sherlock quickly knelt down onto one knee.

"Uck, Daddy?" Hamish whispered quietly, eyeing the liquid in his father's hands.

"A little," the detective chuckled.

"Mmm... 'Kay."

"Very good, Hamish." Smiling reassuringly, Sherlock quickly shoved the spoon into the little boy's mouth, almost chuckling at the disgusted look on his son's face. "Sorry," he whispered, dropping the spoon into the sink as he stood up, keeping Hamish's hand between his fingers.

"Uky, Daddy!" the little boy exclaimed unhappily, frowning as he tried to rid the nasty taste from his mouth.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. But that should help you feel better... I'm sorry you have a headache," Sherlock murmured quietly as he brushed some of the little boy's curly hair out of his eyes. A loving smile on his lips, the detective leaned forward to press a tender kiss to Hamish's forehead.

"'Kay, Daddy... Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?" the detective whispered, bending back down until he was eye-to-eye with the little boy. "What is it?"

"Daddy... Daddy stay at Hame?" the little boy asked quietly. With hopeful eyes, Hamish reached forward, grabbing onto the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt.

The detective paused, staring at his son with sad eyes. "Of course I'll stay with you, Hamish... Come on. It's Christmas Eve. What do you say we go and watch some Christmas movies?" he asked gently, brushing his thumb over Hamish's cheek.

"Hmm," the little boy sighed in response. A tiny smile forming on his lips, Hamish leaned forward, falling into his father's arms. "'Es 'ease, Daddy."

"Excellent." A loving smile on his lips, Sherlock reached forward, wrapping his arms around Hamish's small body as he glanced at the clock. 9:39. Hamish would probably be out before the first film was over. "My goodness," the detective sighed dramatically, moving his son to his hip as he slowly walked out of the kitchen. "You are getting to be such a big boy! Soon I won't be able to do this anymore." Sherlock couldn't help but pause as it occurred to him that one day he really wouldn't be able to hold Hamish like that... Saddened by the thought, the detective moved the little boy from his hip to his chest, cuddling his smaller form close.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, snuggling into his father's tender touch. "'Kay, Daddy?" he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm all right Thank you... I love you, you know," he added suddenly, grinning as he saw the little boy's lips curve up into a small smile.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered quietly, keeping his eyes closed. "An' Hame 'ove."

Unable to help himself, the detective leaned forward, pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the top of his son's head. "I know," he whispered softly, letting his lips brush against the little boy's curls as he spoke.

A small smile playing on his lips, Sherlock slowly moved to the couch, and sat down, opting to keep Hamish on his lap rather than place him next to him. "There we are," he murmured, running a quick hand over the little boy's back. "Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed sleepily, temple rubbing against his father's chest as he nodded up and down.

"Good." Gazing down at his son with warm eyes, Sherlock quickly grabbed the remote and clicked to what had become Hamish's favorite Christmas movie: Miracle on 34th Street. The detective couldn't help but grin as he heard the little boy gasp in his arms upon hearing the opening.

With wide, excited eyes, Hamish turned in his father's arms, groaning quietly as the movement only furthered the pain in his head. "Daddy," he whined, pressing a few fingers to his forehead as he frowned.

"Here. I'll get it," Sherlock chuckled, gently turning the little boy on his legs until he was facing the television. "Would you like some water to help with your head?" he asked gently, running his fingertips over Hamish's stomach.

"Mmm-hmm. 'Es 'ease, Daddy," the little boy whispered, smiling contently as he gazed at the television.

"All right." Smiling lovingly at his son, Sherlock gently moved Hamish's small body to the right, careful to use slow movements so as not to upset his head even further.

The detective quickly moved around the kitchen, making a cup for the little boy and chuckled to himself as he heard Hamish start to squeal with happiness.

"Here you are," he laughed, moving back into the sitting room and handing Hamish the cup.

"Hmm? Oh! Ta, Daddy." Grinning at he movie on the screen, Hamish hopped off the couch waiting patiently while his father got situated again. "Up 'ease?"

Smiling at his son's happiness, Sherlock bent over and pulled Hamish onto his lap. "Better?" he asked quietly, placing a gentle hand on the little boy's back.

"Mmm," he hummed in reply, quickly snuggling into the detective's chest. "Good, Daddy."

"Good."

Throughout the movie, Sherlock watched with fond eyes as Hamish started to trace the gap of his collarbone, the little boy's chubby fingers incredibly gentle. The lights on the Christmas tree they had put up were dancing off of Hamish's face, illuminating his deep green eyes.

"You're so beautiful, Hamish," Sherlock murmured aloud, not even realizing he had done it."I love you." A tiny, wistful smile on his lips, the detective quickly brushed his fingertips over his son's forehead. Hamish blinked slowly at the contact, eyes slipping shut and then open again. The movie was nearly over and it was a wonder the little boy had made it this far.

"Daddy?" he whispered quietly, hand now resting in the gap he had previously been tracing.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock asked softly, grabbing the remote and turning down the volume on the telly. "What is it? Does your head still hurt?"

"No, Daddy. Ask?"

"Of course. You can ask me anything you'd like."

"Uhh..." The little boy hesitated and he shifted slightly in Sherlock's lap, moving until he was in an almost-standing position, hands gripping onto the collar of his father's shirt. "What... What Daddy 'ove Hame?" he asked quietly, gazing into the detective's pale-blue eyes. "What 'ove?" he whispered again, face pulling into a worried expression.

"Why do I love you?" Sherlock asked gently, moving his hand until he was cradling the little boy's head in his palm.

"Mmm-hmm... W... Wh-ay?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, gazing into Hamish's deep sea-green irises and reveling in how they seemed to brighten with the lights from the tree. "Well," he murmured, his deep voice filling the quiet flat. "I love you for many reasons, Hamish... I love you because you're my son, and I wouldn't change that for the world. I love you because I think you're sweet and beautiful. I love you because of your beautiful green eyes; your curly hair... I love your smile and the way you giggle. I love you because... Because you're you. And you're positively perfect, Hamish," Sherlock finished softly, giving his son a warm smile. He quickly brushed his thumb over the little boy's cheek, before leaning in. "I love you, Hamish," he whispered gently before pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's forehead. "You're perfect."

"Oh... Daddy," Hamish signed in amazement, eyes sliding shut the detective kissed his forehead. "Hame 'ove! At heart," the little boy cried, throwing his chubby arms around his father's neck. "'Ove, Daddy..."

"I love you, too, Hamish. With all my heart," Sherlock whispered, tucking the little boy's head under his chin as he pulled him close. Smiling as he felt Hamish curl against his chest, the detective placed a gentle hand to the back of his son's head. "Happy Christmas Eve," he murmured, running his fingers through the little boy's curls.

"Mmm... Hap, Da'ey," Hamish whispered back, chubby fingers curling against the base of Sherlock's neck. "San?"

"Yes," the detective smiled, laying down on the couch. "Santa's coming tonight... Bringing presents for Christmas tomorrow."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish yawned, lulled by his father's voice. "No see?" he added almost frantically, eyes flying open at the thought.

"No, no!" Sherlock chuckled, running a quick hand over the little boy's back. "Don't worry; you won't have to see him. He comes while you're sleeping." The detective smiled down at his son chuckling to himself. Several weeks ago, he and John had attempted to take Hamish to see Santa Clause. Upon being placed on the man's lap, the little boy became absolutely terrified. It took nearly forty minutes for the flat mates to calm him down and then another fifteen to explain that although Santa would visit their home, they would not see each other.

Smiling at the thought, Sherlock reached down, and grabbed a blanket that was lying on the floor. "There you go," he murmured softly, draping the fabric over Hamish's curled-up form. "Are you warm enough?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Es, Daddy," the little boy sighed contently, nuzzling against his father's chest.

"Good."

"Nigh' nigh', Daddy... Hame 'ove. 'Ove, Daddy."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile down at his son. "Goodnight, Hamish. I love you, too... Sleep well."

"Mmm." With one last, tiny yawn, Hamish fell asleep, one hand resting in the gap at the base of the detective's neck, a fistful of his father's shirt clutched tightly in his other hand.

"Goodnight, Hamish. I love you," Sherlock whispered quietly. With soft eyes, the detective started to trace his fingers over his son's tiny back, smiling at the slow rise and fall of the little boy's back. "You're perfect."

Listening to the gentle breathing of his son, Sherlock remained on the couch, gazing around at the flat, which was lit with a warm, orange haze from the tree. The light bounced off of Hamish's dark curls, highlighting the brown-red tints in the little boy's auburn hair.

Smiling with a tender gaze, Sherlock tucked the blanket further around his son's sleeping form, and placed his hand on the little boy's back. With a deep breath, the detective closed his eyes, lips quirking up as his hand rose and fell with each of Hamish's deep breaths.

 

 

 

John returned home at an entirely ungodly hour, a little tipsy from having drunk too much. Rubbing his forehead, the doctor quickly hurried into the flat. He glanced into the living room, chuckling sarcastically when he saw Sherlock, sprawled across the couch, a blanket draped over his chest. He was about to head up to his room when he heard a tiny sigh. Brows pulled together in confusion, John's eyes scanned over his friend again. The doctor's gaze softened as he saw Hamish's head peeking out from under the blanket, and noticed that Sherlock had his hand splayed across the little boy's back.

"You big softie," John whispered, smiling fondly at his flat mates. "'Night, you two." With another quick smile, the doctor quickly slipped up the stairs, not noticing as Sherlock's lips quirked up into a small smile.


	31. Merry Christmas

Chapter Thirty-One: Merry Christmas

Shortly after John had returned, Sherlock had silently slid off the couch and moved Hamish's sleeping form into his bedroom, as he needed to get everything set up for the morning. Smiling fondly as he laid his son's limp body onto the bed, Sherlock bent down, pressing a soft kiss to little boy's temple. With a loving gaze, the detective pulled back, and quickly brushed his fingertips over Hamish's forehead, moving some of the little boy's unruly curls away from his eyes.

The tiny smile still playing over the corners of his lips, Sherlock quickly left his room, silently pulling the door shut behind him. He paused, taking a moment to listen and make sure that he had not woken Hamish up. When all could be heard were the faint, muffled sounds of the little boy's breathing, the detective continued, walking through the hallway to the landing of the stairs. With a deep breath, Sherlock turned his gaze up the stairs to John's room. The faint sounds of the doctor getting ready for bed could be heard through his closed door.

Smirking to himself, the detective quickly hurried up the flight of stairs, taking them two by two and swung open the door to John's room, not even bothering to knock.

"Agh! Sherlock!" the doctor cried in surprise, quickly pulling up the trousers he'd been in the middle of shedding.

"Oh, please, John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes at his flat mate's embarrassment. "It's not as if you haven't seen me in various states of undress. Listen. We need to go down at get everything set up for tomorrow morning."

"Sherlock," John groaned, practically collapsing onto the bed. "I just got back."

"I told you not to go out and drink too much, John. You knew we were going to be setting up," Sherlock warned, raising an eyebrow at his friend.

"Can't you just... Do it by yourself?" the doctor groaned, scrunching his eyes shut as he kneaded his fingers into his forehead. When no response came, John opened his eyes ever so slightly and groaned once again up seeing the utterly shocked and and almost hurt expression on his flat mate's face.

"Sherlock," he started, more softly this time. "I just... Can't you... Fine!" With a heaving sigh, the doctor all but fell out of the bed, placing his hands on his hips as he gave Sherlock a disapproving glare. "You're insufferable."

"Of course. Thank you, John," the detective smirked, smiling smugly at his flat mate. "Come along." Turning on his heel, Sherlock practically hopped down the stairs, though was careful not to make too much sound, so as not to wake Hamish.

Almost vibrating with excitement at being able to celebrate his first Christmas with Hamish, the detective hurried down the several flights of stairs to 221C, where they'd hidden all of the little boy's presents, grabbed a large armful of the already-wrapped gifts and made his way back up, passing John along the way.

"Trying," the doctor mumbled upon receiving a disapproving look from his flat mate. Blinking away his tiredness and headache, John quickly jogged down the rest of the stairs and picked up several of the presents.

After a few more trips to the lower level (most of which were completed by Sherlock), all of Hamish's presents had been brought into the flat and were now scattered haphazardly across the floor.

"John, uhh... How do we... Uhm," the detective asked awkwardly, gazing around at the gifts.

Lips parted slightly, as he was about to make some off-handed comment, John paused at his friend's comment, eyes suddenly growing sad as he gazed at the utterly lost expression in his flat mate's eyes. "You don't know how to decorate presents under the tree?" he asked softly.

"Uhh, I never really got presents under the tree," Sherlock replied distractedly, crouching down and gathering a few presents in arms. "Therefore, I'm not entirely... Sure how to..." The detective's voice trailed away as he glanced between the gifts in his hands, the others remaining on the floor, and the space under the tree they had managed to put up.

"Right," John murmured quietly, gazing after his friend with sad eyes. "Well... Umm, usually the biggest presents go towards the back," the doctor continued softly, moving forward to grab the two largest presents. "These should go as far under the tree as you can get them, see?"

"Oh," Sherlock said quietly, watching the doctor with observant eyes. Understanding and quickly following suit, the detective bent down, releasing the small gifts he had in his arms and grabbed several of the bigger ones, moving them towards the tree, and shoving them back, as he had seen John do. The doctor watched silently as his flat mate took each and every gift, placing them delicately under the tree.

With a small, almost secretly triumphant smile, Sherlock set the last gift on the ground, and pulled away, straightening his back as he stood. "Oh, umm," he said awkwardly, almost blushing as he realized John had been watching him the whole time. "Yes. Good... Well, thank you, John," he added quietly, quickly smoothing down the front of his suit, which he'd yet to take off.

"Sure," the doctor whispered, giving his friend a warm smile. "Well! At least now you know how to place presents under the tree!"

Despite his embarrassment, the detective managed a small smile. "Yes. Thank you again, John. Sorry I stopped you from sleeping... Admittedly, though," he added with a quick quirk of his eyebrow. "I did warn you not to drink too much."

"Yes, yes, yes, I know, I know," John huffed quickly, giving his friend a royal eyeroll. "Speaking of, can I please get back to going to sleep?"

Giving the doctor an eyeroll of his own, Sherlock shot his friend a dithering look. "John, do you really think I would prohibit you from getting at least a decent amount of sleep?"

"Why... Agggh, nevermind," John sighed, chuckling half-heartedly to himself. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he chuckled, giving the detective a warm smile before turning to head back to the stairs. "Happy Christmas," he called down, almost to his room.

"Happy Christmas," Sherlock replied smugly, locking his fingers behind his back as he watched the doctor hurry up the rest of the stairs and disappear into his room. With the gentle click of John's door, the sly grin slowly slid from his face, and the detective turned back to glance at the tree. His eyes softened slightly as he gazed at the warm lights. Sherlock's gaze quickly skimmed over the tree once more, and then, with a quick twitch of a smile forming on his lips, the detective turned, gliding back into his room.

Closing the door as quietly as he could, Sherlock closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted now that he was enveloped in the darkness of his room. Smiling to himself as he heard Hamish's deep, steady breaths, the detective quickly discarded his jacket, opting to just sleep in the clothes he had on, and made to lay down in the bed. He paused, taking a moment to locate his son's sleeping form. Upon seeing that the little boy had rolled to the left, and was now facing the cot, Sherlock quickly slid in, sighing contently as he settled into the warmth of the welcoming bed.

"Hmm," Hamish hummed in his sleep upon feeling the movement on the other side of the bed. With a tiny sigh, the little boy stretched in his sleep, making a quiet moaning sound as he shifted, subconsciously scooting closer to Sherlock. Waking slightly at the motion, the little boy murmured a soft, "Da'ey?" His eyebrows scrunched together in slight discomfort when he reached out, hands only grasping open air.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed gently, quickly scooting closer to Hamish's tiny form and wrapping his fingers around the little boy's outstretched hand. "Go back to sleep... It's all right," he whispered, wrapping a comforting arm around his son's middle and pulling him close to his chest.

"Hmm," Hamish sighed contently, quickly slipping back into sleep. With several deep breaths, the little boy curled his small body forward, leaning back into his father's touch. A content smile turning up the corners of his lips, he turned, resting his head against the Sherlock's arm.

"Goodnight, Hamish," the detective murmured, gazing at his son with tender eyes. Smiling lovingly at the slumbering boy, Sherlock quickly ran his thumb back and forth over Hamish's chubby fingers, lulled by the soft feel of the little boy's skin and the gentle sound of his breathing.

Smiling softly at the sensation, Sherlock pulled Hamish's hand close to his chest and allowed his eyes to quickly slip shut, falling into a sleep of his own.

 

 

 

Sherlock was awoken by a gentle prodding at his cheek. Eyebrows pulled together in both confusion and tiredness, the detective slowly opened eyes to find Hamish's excited face hovering above him, his chubby fingers poking again at his face.

"Ugh. Hamish," he groaned dramatically, quickly squeezing his eyes shut again. "What're you doing up so early? Aren't you tired?" he sighed, opening his eyes just enough to squint up at his son.

"Hame up, Daddy," the little boy declared joyfully, scooting closer to the detective as he bounced with excitement and anticipation. "'Ow Daddy up!" Grinning, he tapped Sherlock's face again, this time splaying his fingers across his father's cheek as stared expectantly at the detective.

"Now it's my turn to get up? Couldn't we just maybe wait for—"

"No, Daddy," Hamish interrupted determinedly, scowling slightly the detective. Frowning at his father, the little boy curled his fingers against Sherlock's cheeks, silently pleading once again. "Up 'ease, Daddy?" he whispered with wide, hopeful eyes. "San' come..."

With a deep breath, the detective fully opened his eyes and stared up at Hamish with a tender gaze. A soft smile playing over his lips, Sherlock reached up, brushing the back of his knuckles over the little boy's forehead. "All right," he murmured, taking in his son's beautiful features. "Let's go."

"Real Daddy?" Hamish gasped excitedly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. The wide grin returning to his face, the little boy buried his face in the detective's raven curls, giving his father a tight hug. "Mmm," he hummed contently, giggling at the ticklish feeling of Sherlock's hair against his skin. "Daddy..."

"Of course," the detective chuckled, placing a tender hand to the back of Hamish's hand. "Ready?" he whispered, turning to press a gentle kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Come on, then."

With a soft groan, Sherlock turned on the bed, keeping Hamish snuggled tightly against his neck. "I need to get dressed, all right? Can you just wait here for a moment?" he asked, moving the little boy to his hip and waiting for an answer.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish responded contently, pulling away from the detective. "'Kay, Daddy," he stated, gazing at the bed while he waited to be set down.

"Good." Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock placed the little boy back on the bed, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before turning away, moving to his dresser. Yawning once again, the detective quickly pulled out a pair of his pajama bottoms, deciding to just wear his button-up and turned back to the bed. He paused upon seeing Hamish giggling wildly, pressing his chubby hands to his mouth in an effort to stifle the laugh.

"Why do you always find it so humorous to watch me change?" Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head at the little boy as he quickly changed out of the dress pants and pulled on on the pajama bottoms.

"S'lly, Daddy," Hamish laughed, reaching his chubby arms up towards the detective.

Chuckling fondly at his son, Sherlock bent forward, and pulled the little boy onto his hip. "We'll need to go wake John up, all right?"

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and tucking his head into the space between his father's shoulder and neck. "Good."

"Good," the detective echoed, a gentle smile playing on his lips. Absentmindedly pulling the little boy closer, Sherlock opened the door and hurried down the hallway, careful to angle his body so Hamish wouldn't see the sitting room, and then hurried up to John's room. "Go on," he whispered, setting the little boy on the ground once they were settled on the landing.

Grinning, Hamish bounced up and down, waiting in anticipation while his father opened the door.

Sherlock watched from the doorway, chuckling to himself as Hamish scurried up onto the doctor's bed.

"John. John?" the little boy whispered loudly, slowly shaking the doctor's arm back and forth. "John. Up 'ease John!" he called, a little more loudly, practically falling over John's waking form as he tried to reach his face. "Up 'ease. Daddy up, John."

"Hmm? What? Oh... Yes... Good morning, Hamish," the doctor said quietly, taking a deep breath as he tried to wake up.

"Morn', John!" the little boy called cheerfully, pleased that he had succeeded in waking John up. Grinning contently, he turned his attention back to Sherlock, eyebrows pulling together when, at first, he couldn't find the detective.

"Oh," he sighed in relief upon spotting his father at the doorway. "'Ome, John," he said cheerfully, quickly sliding off the bed and hurrying over to Sherlock. Taking his son's tiny hand in his own, the detective glanced towards John, giving his friend an almost apologetic smile.

"I'm coming," the doctor chuckled, quickly rolling off the bed and hurrying over to his two flatmates. "All right," he yawned, giving the little boy a quick smile. "Ready."

Vibrating with excitement and anticipation, and with much help from his father, Hamish hopped down each and every step, grinning as they moved closer and closer to the sitting room. "Oh... Daddy," he gasped in amazement upon rounding the corner and seeing the large pile of presents stacked under the tree.

"Go on," Sherlock murmured, placing a tender hand to the little boy's back, urging him to go forward.

Eyes wide with amazement, Hamish stumbled forward, hurrying for the gifts. "Daddy 'ease Hame help?" he asked quietly, still shocked by the wonder of it all.

"Of course I will, Hamish." Sharing a quick smile with John, Sherlock moved forward, guiding the little boy closer to the presents, and then sat down on the ground, pulling Hamish into his lap. "Pick one," he murmured, smiling fondly at the amazement and happiness filling his son's impossibly green eyes.

"Uhhmm... One." With a questioning gaze, Hamish pointed to the closest present, a small, thin box.

"Excellent choice," the detective whispered, reaching forward to grab the gift. He grinned, eyes filling with love as watched the little boy delicately tear away the paper.

"Tom!" Hamish gasped in amazement upon seeing the DVD case below the torn wrapping. "Tom Tank!" Quickly tossing away the rest of the paper, the little boy stared down at the video, a small grin tugging up the corners of his lips. "Hmm," he hummed contently, haphazardly turning the case over in his chubby hands, examining it. Eyebrows pulled together in concentration, Hamish pulled the video closer, studying the vibrant pictures scattered about the case. His deep green eyes quickly flicked across the glossy cover, and his bottom lip protruded slightly as he leaned back against Sherlock's stomach and chest, completely immersed in what he was doing.

The detective watched with warm eyes as his son examined the video, amazed once again by the levels of intelligence and observation skills the little boy had. He couldn't help but smile upon feeling a warm fluttering of pride swell in his chest.

John watched silently from the couch at the sweet interaction between Sherlock and Hamish, gazing at the two with a soft gaze. Though he knew his friend often tried to hide his affection for the little boy, the doctor felt oddly happy at being able to witness the connection between the two. A small smile pulling up one corner of his lips, John watched as Hamish carefully examined the new Thomas DVD, spinning it over and over his hands. His gaze quickly flicked to the little boy's face, and the doctor couldn't be freeze upon glancing between Sherlock's and Hamish's faces; side by side, the father and son sported nearly the exact same facial expressions, one of intense concentration. John huffed out a chuckle as he realized just how much the little boy really did look like Sherlock; the doctor wondered for a moment if Hamish looked anything like his flat mate had as a young boy, and couldn't help but smile fondly at the thought.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock whispered softly, running his thumb over his son's cheek.

"Hmm? What, Daddy? Oh... Oh! 'Es! Hame like!" the little boy declared triumphantly, expression quickly returning to normal as he was pulled away from his reverie. Eyes once again bright with excitement, Hamish turned, pressing himself against his father's chest as he simultaneously hugged the new present close. "Ta, Daddy," he whispered against the detective's skin.

"You're most certainly welcome, Hamish. Happy Christmas..." With a gentle smile, Sherlock bent down and pressed a tender kiss to the top of his son's head. "Next one?"

"Oh. Uhhm..." Returning to the task at hand, Hamish quickly turned in the detective's lap, still clutching the new video close to his little chest and then pointed to another present, farther away.

"I'll get it," John murmured, still smiling fondly at his two flamates. "Here you are, little man," he chuckled softly, joining the two on the ground as he passed the gift to Hamish.

"Ta, John," the little boy called thankfully, taking the box from John's hands.

"Very good manners," Sherlock praised, shifting slightly so that he could look around Hamish's small body as he opened the gift. Smiling fondly at his son, the detective watched with loving eyes as the little boy opened each and every present, deciding not to say anything when he noticed John pull out his camera.

 

 

 

"Unk Lest'de!" Hamish cheered happily, hopping out of Sherlock's lap and hurrying over to the Inspector as he entered the flat.

"Oh! Hey there, Hamish!" Greg called, placing the small bag of presents he had on the floor so he could pull the little boy into a tight hug. "Mmm... Have you opened all of your presents?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed in reply, wrapping his chubby fingers around Lestrade's fingers as he pulled out of the DI's embrace, urging him to come further into the flat. Satisfied, the little boy ran back over towards the couch where Sherlock and John, both still in there pajamas, were seated, watching the telly, which was currently playing Thomas the Tank Engine. "Up 'ease, Daddy?" he asked quietly, tugging at the hem of his father's trousers as he waited to be lifted back onto the couch.

"Yes. Ohh... Here we are," Sherlock sighed dramatically, pulling Hamish back onto his lap and wrapping his arm around the little boy's middle

"Greg! I'm glad you could make it," John said cheerfully, leaving the couch, as it was clear Sherlock would not be doing the welcoming anytime soon.

"Yeah, yeah of course," the Inspector sighed, giving the doctor a warm smile. "Couldn't bear to miss Hamish's first Christmas, now could I?" he chuckled, calling the last part louder, and towards Hamish.

"Hmm," the little boy hummed in response, not even bothering to look away from the screen.

"Come on in," John chuckled, gesturing towards the sitting room. "Hamish, would you like to come and open Uncle Greg's presents he brought for you?"

"No 'ease, John," the little boy replied simply, snuggling against Sherlock as he continued to watch the television. "Tom at Daddy."

"Hamish, Uncle Lestrade came esp—"

"It's all right, John," the Inspector chuckled, gently clapping the doctor on the shoulder. "It's Christmas. He can open my presents later."

"Thanks, Greg," John thanked gratefully, giving the Inspector a warm smile. "Anyway, uh, make yourself at home. Mrs. Hudson is currently downstairs cooking for us... And I think Molly should be on her way over. Mary's already on her way."

"Just got here," Sherlock murmured, gazing down at Hamish's cheerful face.

"What? Oh. You mean Mary?"

"Yes."

The doctor chuckled to himself as, moments later, Mary could be heard bustling up the stairs, followed closely by Molly.

"Hamish," Sherlock whispered, giving the little boy's middle a gentle squeeze.

"Hmm? 'Es, Daddy?"

"Look who just go here." Knowing Hamish would be terribly excited to see Molly's baby, Sherlock stood up, already moving towards the pathologist.

"What? Oh! Molly!" the little boy cried happily, tapping the detective on the shoulder in a silent request to be let down.

"Go on," Sherlock chuckled, setting his son on the ground and watching with fond eyes as the little boy immediately dashed to the baby carrier, clinging to the side and leaning over to catch a glimpse of the newborn.

"What's her name?" John asked softly, giving Molly a welcoming smile.

"Oh, uh, Rose-Marie Hooper... My mother's name."

"That's beautiful, Molly," the doctor murmured, gazing with soft eyes at the baby.

"Thank you. She's uhh... Well she's certainly a handful," Molly chucked tiredly, running a quick hand through her long hair. "She's not too fond of sleeping at night..."

"Ah. Sorry to hear that."

"It's okay. I still love her, though," the pathologist chuckled, gazing down at her daughter and watching as Hamish stared in, eyes wide with sheer amazement and joy.

"Daddy?" the little boy whispered, turning around to find his father.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock murmured, crouching down next to his son and placing a tender hand across the little boy's back. "What is it?"

"Daddy help Hame 'ease?" Hamish asked quietly, pointing to Rose-Marie, who was fast asleep in the seat.

"Oh. Uhh..." The detective quickly glanced at Molly for reassurance.

"Of course," she chuckled, giving Sherlock a quick smile.

"Right... Here Hamish." With slow movements, the detective gently wrapped his slender fingers around Hamish's wrist and moved the little boy's hand towards the sleeping baby's face. "Let's just try not to wake her, all right?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied earnestly, turning to stare up at his father with wide, innocent eyes.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the little boy's sea-green eyes, seeing for the first time that they were filled with trust... Complete and utter trust. Though he knew he must have known Hamish trusted him, somehow, seeing it here in front of him made it that much more real. This little boy—his son—trusted him completely... Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the thought, and, without thinking, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to Hamish's forehead. "I love you, Hamish," he murmured, for once, not caring who heard.

"Mmm... 'Ove, Daddy..." the little boy whispered in reply, closing his eyes as his father kissed his forehead.

Smiling, Sherlock pulled away, feeling a warmth course through his veins at the thought of someone actually trusting him... Him... Sherlock Holmes. "Right," he murmured, returning to the situation at hand. "Here we go."

Unable to stop himself from smiling, Sherlock slowly guided Hamish's hand forward, helping the little boy to run a gentle finger up and down the sleeping baby's cheek.

"Oh... Wow, Daddy," Hamish sighed in amazement, a small smile playing over his lips as he touched the little girl's cheek.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured gently, running his fingertips up and down the little boy's back. "I know."

 

 

 

The rest of the day quickly slipped away with the guests chattering happily throughout. Mrs. Hudson had brought up a large meal, which everyone continually snacked off of during the day. Hamish had forced Sherlock to eat almost a full meal, carefully placing the food in the detective's hand and waiting patiently until his father had finished. When, at first, the detective politely refused, Hamish had started cry, and refused to open any more presents unless and until Sherlock ate something.

Hamish spent most of his time around Molly and the baby, still amazed by the tiny figure. When, with much help from Sherlock, the pathologist had allowed the little boy to hold her, Hamish had nearly had a panic attack of excitement.

Eventually, as the evening wore on, the guests slowly started to trickle away, leaving the small family of three to have the evening to themselves.

"Goodbye, Molly," Sherlock said softly, helping her down the stairs. The pathologist was the last to leave, staying as long as she could so that Hamish could see and touch the new baby as much as possible. "Thank you for coming. Hamish really enjoyed being able to hold and see her... He probably enjoyed that more than the ridiculous amount of presents he got."

"Mmm. Well, I'm glad I could help out," the pathologist chuckled, giving Sherlock a warm smile. "'Night, Sherlock. Happy Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," the detective whispered, leaving in to give Molly a quick kiss on the cheek.

Chuckling at the memory, and with another quick smile, the pathologist quickly slipped out into the brisk night.

Smiling fondly, Sherlock turned and hurried up the stairs, glad for the break of people. He paused in the doorway, eyes softening as he found Hamish, completely passed out on the floor, exhausted from the day's endeavors.

With loving eyes, the detective silently walked over to the little boy and knelt down, placing a hand to the side of his son's head and running a quick thumb over Hamish's eyebrow. "Merry, Christmas, Hamish," he murmured, gazing fondly at his son's sweet face. "I love you."

"Hmm," the little boy sighed in his sleep, eyes fluttering as he leaned into his father's touch.

"Come on." Moving slowly, Sherlock bent down, and lifted his son's limp form into his arms. "Shh," he murmured upon feeling the little boy shift in his arms. "I'm here..."

"Mmm..." With a content smile, Hamish leaned into his father's embrace, one hand subconsciously grabbing a fistful of the detective's shirt.

Gently swaying back and forth, Sherlock slowly made his way towards his room, pressing soft kisses to Hamish's cheeks and forehead and hair.

"There we are," he sighed quietly, placing a hand to the back of his son's small head as he laid the little boy's sleeping form onto the bed. With soft eyes and a loving smile, Sherlock bent down, rubbing his thumb over Hamish's forehead as he pressed another, tender kiss to the little boy's temple. "Goodnight, Hamish," he murmured, letting his lips linger and brush against the smooth skin as he spoke. "Happy Christmas... I love you..."

Keeping his hand to the side of Hamish's head, Sherlock slowly pulled away, and felt his breath catch in throat once again at the beauty of his son... The detective found sometimes, on days like this, he had to stop and pause for a little while. Take a moment to come to realization all over again that this little boy—this tiny human being—was his son.

Eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, Sherlock felt a swell of unimaginable love spread through his chest as he gazed at Hamish's sleeping form. Brushing some of the little boy's unruly curls away from his forehead, the detective reached down, gently prying the little boy's fingers away from his shirt.

"I love you, Hamish," he murmured against the little boy's palm, pressing a quick kiss to his son's chubby fingers. "Sleep well." Unable to stop himself from smiling, Sherlock slowly pulled back, releasing both Hamish's head and his hand, and gently tucked the little boy under the covers. "Goodnight."

That familiar warmth still fluttering in his chest, Sherlock silently slipped from the room, smiling as he closed the door behind him.

Sighing as he realized he should probably get started on cleaning the large mess of new toys and books and clothes scattered about the flat, the detective turned around, smoothing down the front of his suit, which he'd changed into earlier that day. He almost jumped upon seeing John standing in the doorway, a warm smile on his face, hands placed behind his back.

"Oh. Hello, John," Sherlock said cautiously, giving the doctor a questioning gaze.

The smile widening, John moved forward, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I have a little gift for you," he said slyly, trying to hide his obvious excitement.

"Oh?" Sherlock said, feigning surprise. Desperately trying to deduce what the present might be, the detective crossed by the doorway, moving into the sitting room. Squinting questioningly at his flatmate, Sherlock sat down in his chair, pressing his fingertips to his as he crossed his legs.

"Yes," John chuckled, keeping his hands and the gift, safely behind his back as he sat opposite the detective in his own chair. Grin getting bigger, and unable to wait any longer, the doctor quickly pulled his arms away and handed his friend a small picture frame. "Here."

With curious eyes, Sherlock leaned forward, taking the silver picture frame from John's hands. "What could you possibly..." The detective suddenly stopped as he turned the picture over. Resting under the glass was a small picture of a little boy, only a few months old... A little boy with dark, curly hair, deep green eyes and a bright, tiny smile lighting up his entire, chubby face...

"Hamish," Sherlock breathed, unable to tear his eyes away from the photograph. "John... How did you..?"

"I didn't. Mycroft did. He brought it over yesterday while you and Hamish were out shopping. Said I should give it to you as a Christmas gift from the both of us," the doctor murmured, watching with warm eyes as his friend stared down at the picture. "I don't know how he got it..."

"My... I just... Thank you, John," Sherlock managed, unable to hide the tears welling his eyes. "This is... Perfect. Simply perfect... Thank you." Smiling down at the picture of his son, the detective slowly rubbed his thumb over the glass, brushing his finger over Hamish's cheek. "Thank you, John."

"You're welcome," the doctor murmured, smiling at his friend. "I thought you'd like that."

"Yes... Yes." Unable to contain his emotions, Sherlock wrapped his hands around the picture, pulling it close as he allowed several hot tears to slip free. "Sorry, it's just... This is—"

"I know. You don't need to apologize, Sherlock," John reassured the detective gently. "I'll uhh... I'm going to head out with Mary, then. Leave you to it... Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John. Merry Christmas. Have a good evening."

With another warm smile and a quick nod of his head, John turned, stopping by his flat mate's room to give Hamish a quick kiss on the cheek, before hurrying out of the flat, giving Sherlock some time alone with his thoughts.

The detective continued stare at the photograph, continuously rubbing his thumb across the smooth surface as more joyful tears filled his eyes. "Hamish," he breathed again, a small half-smile curving up the corner of his lips. He guessed the little boy couldn't have been more than three months old in the picture, his already tiny body seeming even smaller from the photo. But the thing that Sherlock noticed the most, and what kept sending new waves of tears to his eyes, was the smile... Proof that not everything in Hamish's early life had been horrible. It was only a small moment... Frozen in time by the photograph, but the detective couldn't help but feel a sense of relief and joy at knowing that his son had at least some form of happiness in the time before he knew him.

Smiling at the thought and running his fingertips up and down the frame, Sherlock leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes and clutching the picture close to his chest. "I love you, Hamish," he murmured into the air, slowly opening his steele-grey eyes to stare at the ceiling.

Sherlock rested like that, his thumb absentmindedly stroking over the smooth surface of the frame as the thought, already knowing he would not be getting any rest that night.

 

 

 

Several hours later, the detective was pulled away from his thoughts as he saw something dancing across the floor. Still holding the picture close, and with eyebrows drawn together, Sherlock sat up, smiling as he realized the movement on the wood were the shadows of snowflakes falling outside.

"Hamish," he murmured, suddenly remembering that all the little boy had asked for Christmas for the past month and a half was snow, something he'd never seen before.

Still holding the picture, the detective quickly left the sitting room, hurrying into his own bedroom. With one more quick smile at the frame, Sherlock set it over on top of his dresser, the only sentimental decoration in the entire room, and then turned back to Hamish's sleeping form. He chuckled upon seeing the little boy curled into a ball, all of the covers kicked down to the other end of the bed, surrounded by a large pile of stuffed animals, which were usually kept in in cot.

Gaze warm and loving, Sherlock bent down and placed a tender hand to the little boy's back, as he was lying face-down. "Hamish?" he whispered softly, brushing his fingertips over the smooth skin. "Hamish, wake up. I want to show you something."

"Mmm? Da'ey?" the little boy asked groggily, voice raw with sleep.

"Yes. I want to show you something, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, removing his hand as Hamish rolled over onto his back, stretching his limbs tiredly as he did so.

"Hame seep..."

"I know you were sleeping," the detective chuckled, bending down and pulling his son onto his chest. "But I have one last Christmas present for you," he whispered, swaying back and forth as he waited for a response.

"Mmm... 'Kay, Da'ey..." Eyes fluttering shut and rolling back with Sherlock's gentle swaying, Hamish leaned into Sherlock's comforting embrace, pressing his face to the detective's neck and wrapping one of his chubby hands around his father's collar as he tried to fall asleep again. "'Kay..."

"Excellent." Pressing a quick kiss to his son's temple, Sherlock slowly moved out of his room, pressing the little boy closer as he thought about the picture resting on his dresser. Fighting to stay awake, Hamish yawned, nuzzling against the detective's skin as he tried to blink away his sleep.

Smiling fondly at the sensation of his son's warm skin against his own, Sherlock moved to the window, careful to avoid the mess of presents littering floor, and gazed out at the falling snow. "Hamish?" he murmured, running his palm up and down the little boy's bare skin. "Look out."

"Hmm? What, Daddy? Wha—" Hamish stopped mid-sentence, freezing as he opened his eyes and turned to the window, seeing the snow for the first time.

Breath suddenly quickening with excitement, the little boy scrambled in Sherlock's arms, desperately trying to get closer to the glass.

Chuckling and grinning at his son's wonder, the detective quickly hurried forward, moving nearer to the glass. Eager to see more, Hamish immediately pressed his chubby fingers to the window and leaned forward, looking up and down the street, eyes quickly flying back and forth as he watched all of the snowflakes fall by the window.

"Daddy," he sighed in amazement, smiling at the snow. "Daddy got 'no at Hame," he whispered, turning around in the detective's arms. "Daddy got at Hame." Face scrunching together with happiness, Hamish grinned, pressing his face into Sherlock's jaw, as he wrapped his chubby around the detective's neck. "Daddy got..."

Not having the heart to tell his son that he couldn't actually control the weather, Sherlock just pressed Hamish's small body closer, placing a gentle hand to the back of the little boy's head and stroking his fingers through the silky curls. "Merry Christmas, Hamish," he whispered, bending down to press a tender kiss to his son's cheek.

"Best Tist'mas, Daddy," Hamish whispered against his father's skin. Eyes bright and wide with utter happiness, the little boy pulled away from Sherlock's jaw, and gazed up at the detective with a loving smile. "An' best Daddy," he murmured. Staring into his father's light eyes, Hamish reached up, and pressed his chubby fingers to Sherlock's smooth cheek. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered, hand resting in hollow just under the detective's cheekbone. "Hap... Hap Tris'mas, Daddy."

"Happy Christmas, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, smiling under his son's tender touch. "This has been the best Christmas for me, as well."

"Real, Daddy?"

The detective paused, taking a moment to brush the back of his knuckles over Hamish's cheek. "Really, really," he whispered softly.

"Ohh," the little boy sighed in amazement. Unable to contain his happiness, Hamish reached up, and, with a warm smile, pressed a tiny kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips. "'Ove, Daddy... Best..." he murmured against the detective's skin. "'Ove lot." Turning his attention back to the window, Hamish pressed his cheek against his father's chest, gripping a fistful of the fabric in his hand as he leaned against the detective, watching with content eyes as the snowflakes fell past, one by one.

"Stay, Daddy?" he asked quietly, curling his body against Sherlock's chest as he looked up from where he was resting.

"Of course, Hamish. We can stay..." Noticing the goosebumps covering his son's arms, the detective found his robe and managed to pull off his shirt without the disturbing the little boy. "Here we are," he murmured, settling Hamish back against his bare chest and wrapping the robe around his small body.

"Hmm... Daddy," the tiny boy hummed contently, eyes fluttering shut as he gazed out of the window at the warm light from the street lamps, grinning as he watched the snowflakes falling.

Smiling warmly at his son and enjoying the feel of the little boy's skin against his own, Sherlock bent down, resting his head on top of Hamish's and reached inside the robe, splaying his fingers over the little boy's bare back. "Merry Christmas, Hamish," he whispered, angling his body so Hamish could easily see out the window from where he was resting.

"Mmm... Ma'y... Ma'y Tist..." the little boy murmured, attempting to keep his eyes open so he could finish.

"Shh... It's all right, Hamish," Sherlock reassured, pulling Hamish's hand up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to the little boy's fingers. "Sleep..."

Smiling as he watched another snowflake slip past outside, Hamish sighed contently, and closed his eyes, one of his chubby hands curling against the detective's chest as his breathing slowed.

"Nigh' Daddy," he whispered, leaning his weight into Sherlock's arms.

"Goodnight, Hamish. Sleep well..."

Watching as one more snowflake fell by, Hamish's eyes slowly slid shut and, with a gentle sigh, the little boy fell asleep, his tiny fingers clenching and unclenching against the detective's skin.

"Merry Christmas," Sherlock whispered one last time, gently swaying back and forth as he glanced out the window, smiling at the falling snow. "The best Christmas," he repeated fondly, running his thumb over the little boy's skin. "Yes, Hamish... It was, wasn't it?"

Smiling as he heard the little boy hum in response, Sherlock gazed out the window, swaying from side to side as he watched the snowflakes slowly cover the ground, listening as he felt his son breathing steadily against him and smiling at the peacefulness of it all.


	32. Uh-Oh

Chapter Thirty-Two: Uh-Oh

"Excellent job, Hamish! Now, can you tell me what this is?" Sherlock asked, pointing to his stomach.

The detective was lying on his back in the sitting room, working on naming parts of the body and colors.

Giggling happily and with a wide grin on his little face, Hamish toddled over towards his father's stomach, tripping over his feet and falling on top of the detective in the process.

"Oof! S'ey, Daddy," he whispered, pulling away and resting his head on his father's chest.

"That's all right, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, placing a gentle hand on the little boy's back. "Have you figured it out?"

"'Es, Daddy." Humming contently to himself, Hamish pulled away, grasping onto the side of the detective's shirt, and, with a small grunt, pulled himself into a standing position. Giggling, he fell forward, draping his tiny body over his father's middle. "Tum'ny," he laughed, pressing his face into Sherlock's stomach.

"Very good!" the detective praised, smiling down at his son as he ran his palm up and down the little boy's back. "That's my tummy… Can you tell me where your tummy is, Hamish?"

"Mmm-hmm, Daddy," Hamish hummed happily, nodding his head against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. Still grinning, the little boy slowly slid off his father's stomach, and plopped onto the ground.

Sticking his bottom lip out, Hamish slowly pulled up the bottom of his shirt, attempting to tug the fabric off.

Chuckling softly, Sherlock reached forward and gently pulled the shirt up and off. "There you go," he murmured fondly, setting the fabric on the ground.

"Ta, Daddy," Hamish whispered, giving his father a tiny smile. Returning to the matter at hand, the little boy stared down at his own stomach. Bottom lip protruding slightly, as his eyebrows pulled together, Hamish frowned down at the skin, his tiny breaths filling the otherwise-silent flat.

Sherlock watched with a questioning gaze as his son started to prod at his belly, a concentrated frown forming on the little boy's face as he poked his stomach. "Hamish?" he murmured gently, pushing himself into a sitting position. Chuckling quietly at his son's expression, Sherlock reached forward and pressed his fingers to Hamish's stomach, slipping his hand under the little boy's. "Hamish?" he whispered again, giving his son a warm smile.

"Hmm? Oh... Tum'ny, Daddy," the little boy whispered, giving a slight shake of his head. The smile suddenly returning to his tiny face, Hamish bent down, and wrapped his chubby hand around one of Sherlock's fingers. "Tum'ny!" he declared happily, giving the detective a triumphant smile.

"Very good job!" Sherlock chuckled, gently tickling his son's stomach with his fingertips.

"Daddy!" Hamish laughed, reaching down with his other hand as he attempted to push his father's fingers away.

Laughing along with his son, Sherlock rushed forward, pulling the little boy onto his lap. "I've got you!" he laughed, bending down to pepper Hamish's cheeks and nose with soft kisses while simulatenously tickling the little boy's stomach.

"Daddy! No, no 'ease, Daddy!" Hamish gasped, his light, airy giggles mixing with his father's deep chuckles.

"All right, all right," Sherlock sighed, ceasing his tickling and hugging the little boy close as he fell backwards, resting once again on the ground.

"Mmm," Hamish giggled on his father's chest, pressing his face into the detective's shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. "Daddy," he sighed, closing his eyes and snuggling closer to Sherlock as he breathed, tiny chest heaving up and down.

"Sorry, Hamish," the detective chuckled, gazing with loving eyes at the little boy resting on his chest. Smiling, he bent down, pressing a quick kiss to Hamish's forehead. "You did a very good job today," he murmured, running his fingertips through the little boy's silky curls. "I'm very proud of you."

"Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sighed, wrapping his chubby hand around the collar of Sherlock's shirt as his breathing slowly returned to normal.

Still smiling at his son as he continued to play with the little boy's hair, the detective quickly checked his watch. "Oh. Hamish it's nearly time for your nap. So why don't we—"

"No 'ease, Daddy. No seep Hame," Hamish whispered. Contradicting himself, the little boy pressed is face into Sherlock's collarbone, and yawned against the detective's skin. "Mmm," he sighed tiredly, subconsciously leaning further against his father's chest.

"Not sleepy, hmm?" Sherlock chuckled skeptically, watching with a warm gaze as his son's eyes slowly fluttered open and closed.

"Mmm-hmm, Daddy. No… No seep… Hame."

"Right," the detective murmured, giving Hamish a small half-smile. "Well… If you're not sleepy, would you like to continue?"

"Uhm… 'Es? Oh, 'es, Daddy." With a tiny grunt of effort, Hamish shifted, pressing both of his chubby hands to Sherlock's collarbone, and pushed himself into a sitting position. "Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy. What?" he asked, gazing at the detective with expectant, yet tired eyes.

"We're going to try one of the new ones we learned, all right? See if you can remember. Ready?" Sherlock asked gently.

"'Es."

"Good." Smiling fondly at the little boy on his chest, the detective continued. "Hamish? Can you show me where my eyebrows are?" he asked softly, brushing the back of his knuckles across his son's cheek.

With a deep breath, Hamish parted his lips, as if to say something, but then paused, eyebrows pulling together as he thought.

"Would you like a hint?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," Hamish whispered quietly, still thinking.

"My eyebrows are just above my eyes," Sherlock murmured slowly, giving his son a reassuring smile.

"Oh!" With a tiny gasp, the little boy quickly leaned forward, hovering over his father's face, a small smile gracing his lips. "My mows," he whispered victoriously, pressing both of tiny hands just above the detective's eyes.

"Excellent, Hamish!" Sherlock cheered proudly, placing a tender hand to his son's bare back. "You're so clever," he added lovingly, pressing a soft kiss to Hamish's cheek.

"Hmm, Daddy," the little boy hummed contently, falling forward slightly as a new wave of exhaustion washed over him. "So'h, Da'ey," he managed, eyes starting to droop as he tried to push himself back into a sitting position.

"Shh, it's all right, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled softly, cradling Hamish's head in his hand. "Are you sleepy now?"

"Hmm. 'Es seep, Daddy," the little boy murmured, collapsing forward as he yawned again. Sighing as he allowed his eyes to slip shut, Hamish let his hands slide from Sherlock's face, draping them loosely around his neck. "Nap tie."

"That's what I thought," the detective murmured jokingly. Moving slowly, Sherlock continued to cradle Hamish's head close and sat up, snatching the little boy's blanket as he did so. "Have a good sleep, Hamish," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his son's temple.

"Mmm," the little boy responded sleepily, eyes quickly flitting open and then shut again.

A small, tender smile on his lips, Sherlock moved into his room, gently patting Hamish on the back as he went, and then set the little boy's tired form on the bed. "There you are," he whispered gently, tucking his son under the covers with the blanket. "Rest well."

"'Es, Da'ey," Hamish managed, curling forward and clutching the blanket close.

With a light chuckle, Sherlock placed a tender hand to the side of his son's head and bent down, pressing a loving kiss to his cheek.

"Nigh'..."

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, running his thumb across Hamish's eyebrow.

 

 

 

Shortly after he had put Hamish down for his nap, Sherlock started to work on a case Lestrade had handed him a few days back, just after New Year's Eve. Eager to dive in, as he recalled the details seemed interesting, the detective grabbed the case file and hurried back into the kitchen, sitting down at his microscope and pulling out the papers in the folder.

"Novel," he murmured aloud, an almost mischievous half-smile tugging up one corner of his lips as his eyes quickly scanned over the information. Glad for the much-needed mind stimulation, Sherlock eagerly adjusted his microscope and peered into the lens.

 

 

 

"Daddy?"

Sherlock was pulled away from his thoughts by the sound of his son's tiny voice coming from behind him.

"Hamish?" Quickly setting the papers in his hand on the kitchen table, the detective turned around to see Hamish, blanket in hand, face light pink, rubbing his chubby fist into one of his eyes. "Is something wrong?" he asked softly, gazing with fond eyes at the little boy.

"No, Daddy. Up."

"Yes, you are up, aren't you?" Sherlock chuckled, getting off the stool and walking over to Hamish. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, pulling the small boy into his arms.

"'Es, Daddy." Hamish hummed contently, leaning his head against his father's jaw as they made their way into the sitting room.

"Good." Gently smoothing down his son's wild curls, Sherlock knelt down, and placed Hamish on the ground. The detective kept a firm hold around the little boy's middle as he swayed back and forth, still sleepy from the nap. "All right?" he chuckled fondly, splaying his hand across his son's back to steady him.

"Mmm. Hame 'kay, Daddy." The little boy managed a weak smile for his father, the hand he had around Sherlock's collar clenching and unclenching as he yawned.

"All right," Sherlock chuckled, moving some of Hamish's hair out of his eyes. "Hamish? I need to go work on a case right now, but John should be back in less than an hour. Will you be all right?"

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy smiled, leaning forward to give the detective a loose hug.

"Good. Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock replied gratefully, pressing his son closer as he placed a quick, gentle kiss to the little boy's nose. "Mmm. Thank you!" With a quick rub up and down his tiny back, the detective turned on his heel, eyes glowing with excitement.

 

 

 

John returned home shortly after, and ended up spending nearly an hour outside with Hamish, playing in the snow, which was quickly becoming one of the little boy's favorite pasttimes.

The trio ate a quiet dinner, though Sherlock sat mostly at his microscope the entire time, determined to solve the case that night. When, however, nighttime started to fall, and he did not appear to making an progress, the detective decided to step away and take a break.

 

 

 

"Goodnight, Hamish. I love you," Sherlock murmured, planting a quick kiss to his son's head. Smiling lovingly, the detective turned, heading for the door.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, calling his father back.

Instantly hearing a strange change in his son's voice, Sherlock turned, and hurried back over to the bed.

"Yes, Hamish? What's wrong?" he asked gently, sitting down and pulling the little boy into his arms.

Frowning, Hamish stared down at the ground, not knowing how to phrase what he was wanting to say. "Hame... Fell fun," he managed quietly, hoping Sherlock would understand what he meant.

"You feel funny?" the detective asked confusedly, gazing down at the little boy with a questioning gaze. "Meaning you feel unusual?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish answered quietly, staring up at his father with wide, worried eyes.

Brows pulling together in a worry of his own, Sherlock subconsciously pulled his son's tiny form closer, wrapping his arms around the little boy's small body. "Do you feel sick?" he murmured, checking Hamish's forehead for signs of a fever.

"No. No, Daddy." Shaking his head and with his small lips drawn down into a frown, Hamish shifted in his father's arms, finding the detective's hand. "Daddy," he stated, placing Sherlock's fingers over his chest and covering the detective's hand with both of his own. "Fell fun." Eyes quickly filling with tears, the little boy stared up at his father, the frown deepening on his tiny face.

"You feel funny in your chest?" Sherlock asked softly, gently stroking his thumb back and forth across his son's collarbone.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, a single tear spilling free.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, keeping his hand on the little boy's bare chest as he pulled him close. "How about I stay here with you, then?"

"'Ease, Daddy," Hamish whimpered, nodding against his father's chest.

"All right." Worried about his son's behavior, Sherlock slowly rolled onto his side and pressed the little boy close to his chest, running his thumb over the small clavicle again. "Shh... It's all right, Hamish. I've got you," he murmured, bending down and pressing his lips to the top of his son's head in a tender kiss.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered, quickly snuggling into Sherlock's comforting touch. "No like."

"I know... I'm sorry." Hoping to ease some of his son's worry, the detective started to gently run his fingertips through the little boy's hair. "Try to get some rest."

"Hmm... 'Kay, Daddy."

Lulled by his father's gentle touches, Hamish's body quickly went limp in the detective's arms as his breathing quickly returned to normal.

"Goodnight, Hamish... I love you," Sherlock murmured, pressing another tender kiss to his son's auburn curls.

"Mmm. 'Ove, Da'ey," the little boy managed, nuzzling closer to his father's chest before quickly falling asleep.

Despite the mild anxiety he had felt, Sherlock quickly relaxed as he felt Hamish's heart, normal and steady, beating under his hand. The detective couldn't help but smile at the feel of the gentle thumping against his skin. Watching with fond eyes as his son slept, Sherlock continued to stroke his fingers through the little boy's silky hair, smiling to himself every time Hamish would sigh in his sleep, the small sound sending a wave of warmth through his body.

Sherlock was quickly pulled away from his thoughts, though, by the feeling of his phone buzzing in his pocket. Not wanting to wake Hamish, the detective quickly removed his hand from the back of the little boy's head and pulled out the mobile. Mycroft. Wanting to thank him for the picture of Hamish he'd gotten for Christmas, Sherlock managed to slowly roll off the bed without waking the little boy.

"I love you," he murmured one last time as he tucked his son's small form under the covers. "Goodnight, Hamish." With an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's forehead, Sherlock quickly slipped out of the room, preparing to answer the call.

Wanting privacy, though, and noticing that John was in the sitting room watching telly, the detective silently made his way down the stairs, deciding he would go outside not just for privacy, but also in the hope that the fresh air would do him some good to solve the case.

"Hello?" he answered, quickly pressing the phone to his ear.

"Sherlock, listen to me," Mycroft hissed through the other end of the line. "You need to get back inside right now... Sherlock! Get inside and lock the doors! Now! Sherlock, why aren't you listening to me?"

"Wait, what? Why, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked confusedly, not understanding what his brother was speaking of and why he was talking so urgently.

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock! You need to get John's gun. My people are almost there, but—"

"Mycroft! Just tell me what the hell is happening!" Sherlock cried, frustrated. Though he didn't understand why, the detective turned around, fumbling with the keys as he tried to unlock the door.

"Because!" Mycroft all-but-shouted. "There's—"

Sherlock instantly tensed upon hearing the sound of approaching footsteps and then a low, dark voice. "Good evening, Mr. Homes."

Then all went black.


	33. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So sorry for the cliffhanger with the last chapter, but I felt we needed a little action. Also, sorry for the extra day; I finally got off for Thanksgiving today, so I've been really busy writing this chapter! (I've re-written it several times because it just wasn't working out the way I had wanted it to.) But, I hope this version lives up to your expectations!
> 
> Also, I've got finals coming up in a few weeks and, have such been studying like crazy, so finding time to write has been very difficult as of late, hence the extra day between updates. So please just bear with me these next few weeks. =) Thank you all so very much! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter! (Sorry for the angst in the beginning, though it all ends well, I promise!)
> 
> Have a great Thanksgiving everyone!
> 
> P.S. If anyone has any chapter suggestions or requests, I would love to hear them! Coming up with ideas can become a little difficult sometimes! =) Thanks all!

When Sherlock awoke, he could feel strong fingers around his ankles and wrists, as well as several hands supporting his back. Clear he was being loaded into some sort of vehicle, and not wanting his captors to realize he was conscious, Sherlock remained completely still, fighting every urge that was screaming at him to break free and run into the flat, pull Hamish into his arms, and tell his son that everything was going to be all right. But, knowing that doing such a thing could very well result in his own death, as well as the deaths of his loved ones, the detective forced himself to remain completely still and limp; forced himself to keep the tears burning behind his eyes from slipping out.

Sharp mind quickly thinking of an escape plan, Sherlock allowed himself to be tossed into the back of what he soon realized was a large van. The detective couldn't help but flinch slightly at the sound of the large double doors slamming shut. Knowing he was in the back alone, but unsure of whether there was a window that led to the driver's compartment, Sherlock quickly shifted, moving his wrist until it was positioned by his ear. He sighed in relief upon hearing the quiet ticking of the seconds passing by, glad that his watch had not been taken or broken. So far so good.

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat as he heard the van start up, felt the gentle thrum of the engine. Knowing it would not be noticed, the detective' allowed a few warm tears to slide down his cheeks. An unbearable amount of sadness started to burn in his chest as he felt the car start to drive away, taking him further and further away from his son... Away from Hamish.

Chest heaving with saddened breaths, Sherlock leaned back on the floor of the van, allowing his head to rest on the side. Focus. Focus, Sherlock. Trying to calm himself, the detective closed his eyes, and focused on Hamish. Almost smiling at the thought, Sherlock recalled the sweet sound of his son's laughter; focused on the feel of his lips against the little boy's smooth skin.

"Okay," he sighed aloud, too quiet for anyone to hear. Mind quickly becoming more and more clear, as he was soothed by the reassuring thoughts of his son, Sherlock returned to his thoughts, already preparing a way of escape, though he knew it would only work under the proper circumstances.

Knowing that Mycroft would be watching and following them as long as the CCTV had eyes on van, Sherlock waited, mentally keeping track of each road the car took.

As soon as he noticed they had left the familiar streets of London, Sherlock blurred out the sounds of the world passing by around the car and focused on the ticking of the seconds hand on his watch. Noticing the way the car was bouncing around more than it had in the previous minutes, the detective knew they had left the city and were traveling on a much less-traveled, more worn road.

Listening to the ticking of his watch, Sherlock counted each second, noting until there was a change in the road.

One, two, three... Ten, eleven, twelve... Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Left turn.

One, two, three... Six, Seven, Eight. Left turn.

One, two. Right turn.

One, two, three, four. Left turn. Change of pavement. Gravel.

Forty-nine seconds. Right turn. Change of pavement. Concrete. Old. Worn.

Stop.

Sherlock opened his eyes as he felt the car turn off; the gentle thrum of the engine quickly dissipating. He waited, not bothering to close his eyes, until the back doors open, flooding the van with a dim light.

"Ah," came the voice of the man he head heard earlier. "You're awake. Get him out."

Squinting slightly at the light, Sherlock pushed himself up. "I'm more than capable of doing it on my own," he said cooly, sliding out of the car and straightening his scarf as he stood to his full length, fixing the captor with an icy gaze. The detective's eyes quickly flicked around him, taking in as much information about his surroundings as he could.

Seven men. All armed. Abandoned industrial building in the background. Makeshift headquarters. Leader: 47 years of age. Unmarried. Expensive suit; values appearance. Ring on left index finger—

"Mr. Holmes," the man in the suit drawled, taking a step closer to the detective. "If you would please stop your deductions, I would greatly appreciate getting to work." With a quick nod of his head, the six other men quickly dispersed, two moving back towards the van and the remaining four heading towards the building. "Come along, Mr. Holmes."

With a quick twitch of his lips, Sherlock followed the man, eyes quickly scanning around him for any clues as to a way out. He knew that with each man armed, simply attempting to escape would most certainly result in his death, or worse.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked calmly, linking his fingers behind his back as he followed the man into the old building, coat billowing behind his long strides.

"Someone in need of help," the man chuckled.

Sherlock's lips quirked up in mild interest as he entered the building and quickly followed the much-shorter man down a series of long hallways until they eventually reached an old, grey room. Following a gesture from the man in the suit, the detective entered, sitting down at a large, metal table and linking his fingers on the tabletop as he waited for his captor to follow suit.

"Mr. Holmes, I need your help," the man started, shutting the door behind him. "My name is Salem Zorack. And I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a clench."

Sherlock watch carefully as Zorack sat in the chair opposite, pulling a picture out of his breast pocket. "You know this man," he stated plainly, tossing the image across the table.

Sherlock made sure to keep his expression completely emotionless as he stared down at an old photograph of his brother. "Obviously," he murmured plainly, raising an eyebrow at the man.

"Obviously," Zorack chuckled, smirking at the detective. "Good. Well, your brother, Mycroft Holmes, has something I require and I need you to get it for me."

"Oh? And what exactly has he taken?" Sherlock asked smugly, raising a curious eyebrow.

"Something of deep importance. That's all."

"Of course." Rolling his eyes and heaving a deep sigh, the detective leaned back in the chair, letting his folded hands slide onto his lap. "No."

"No? Are you sure?"

"Quite."

"Well... That's unfortunate," Zorack sighed dramatically, pulling Mycroft's picture away and tucking it back into his pocket. "I will return in three hours to see if you have changed your mind."

Giving the detective sad smile, Zorack turned, and quickly exited the dismal room, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Taking a deep breath and attempting to sort through his thoughts, Sherlock stood, knowing that, for the time being, he was just going to have to remain captive and wait.

Releasing the breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, the detective slipped a hand in his pocket, feeling around the phone he knew wasn't there. Sherlock stopped however as his the back of his fingertips brushed a cross the smooth surface of glass.

Trying, to stop the new wave of tears threatening to fall as he felt the magnifying glass Hamish had given him for this birthday nestled safely in his pocket, Sherlock allowed himself a small smile as he wrapped his hand around the gift, glad to have a little something of Hamish with him. Twirling the smooth glass in his fingertips, the detective closed his eyes, loweing his guard and allowing himself to, if only for a moment, escape to his thoughts.

 

 

 

"Damn it," Mycroft muttered angrily as he saw the man hit his brother alongside the head; saw the detective quickly tumble to the ground. Eyes glued to the man CCTV screens in front of him, Mycroft quickly dialed another number and waited impatiently for an answer from the other line.

 

 

 

"Mycroft?" John asked, surprised to be receiving a call from his flat mate's brother, of all people.

"John, he's been taken," Mycroft said plainly, the stress evident in his voice.

Expression suddenly going serious as he understand, the doctor's attention immediately flew to Sherlock's room, where he knew Hamish was sleeping. "What happened?"

"There's a series of men who... Believe I have stolen information from them that is rightfully theirs. However, when I refused to expose said information, they retaliated, turning to the one person they thought would be able to get them their way."

"Sherlock," John inputted quietly, gaze still lingering on the detective's door.

"Yes... John, I'm sorry."

"That's all right. It's not your fault," the doctor murmured, his attention now turning to Sherlock and all of the possibilities of what could be happening to him. "Do you know where he is?"

"Sort of. I have them as far as my cameras can see... However, I have my people out and searching in all directions... We will find him, John."

"Sure... But what am I supposed to tell Hamish until then, Mycroft?"

A pause.

"Tell him Sherlock's helping me with a very important case, and as such, had to leave suddenly, but will be returning home shortly."

"Yes, fine. But what if he doesn't return home, Mycroft? Then what am I supposed to tell him?" John hissed, anger and fear burning in his chest at the thought.

"I'm sorry. I'm trying everything I can, John."

"... Right." With a nod of his head, John took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, still staring sadly towards Sherlock's room. "God," he muttered sadly, brows drawing together as he thought of what might be happening to his flat mate... "No," he whispered out loud, quickly clenching his fists together at the thought that the detective might not come back. "Sorry, Mycroft not you."

"Ah. I see. Apologies. John? There is one more thing."

"Yes?"

"Sherlock has... If anything should happen to him, he has give you sole custody of Hamish. I just wanted to give some sort of warning if... If something goes wrong, that's all."

"He... He made me Hamish's guardian?" John asked quietly, clearly shocked. "When did he..."

"Shortly after he adopted Hamish," Mycroft answered softly.

Despite the circumstances, John managed a small smile, amazed that Sherlock had entrusted his son's life with him. "Thank you, Mycroft," he thanked quietly, smiling fondly towards his friend's room.

"Of course. I shall call you if and when I discover anything."

"Yes. Just... Find him, all right?"

"Trying." With a gentle click of the line, Mycroft was gone, leaving the doctor alone in the quiet flat, left only with his worrisome thoughts.

 

 

 

John spent the rest of the night and early morning pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room, occasionally kneading his fingers into his forehead as another hour would slip by with no call from Mycroft, dreading each second that passed, as it brought him closer and closer to when Hamish would wake.

Almost exactly ten hours after the call from Mycroft, the doctor was seated in his chair, rubbing circles into his tempe, when he heard a gentle rustling coming from Sherlock's room.

Knowing Hamish had woken, and feeling his heart quicken in his chest, John hurried over towards the detective's door and entered the room.

"Hey, little man," he whispered cheerfully upon seeing Hamish, rubbing tiredly into his eyes as he sat up in bed, one of his stuffed animals clutched close to his tiny chest.

"Mmm... Morn', John," the little boy yawned, quickly collapsing back onto the bed.

"Morning, Hamish," the doctor chuckled. Smiling sadly at the little boy, John moved over and sat down on the bed, placing a gentle hand on Hamish's back.

"Daddy?" the little boy mumbled tiredly, turning his head agains the sheets to stare at John.

"Hamish," the doctor started carefully, making sure not too sound how he actually felt. "Daddy had to go help Mycroft with a case really late last night. So he left to go help Uncle Mycroft, but he should be back here in a little while, all right?"

"Daddy case at My?" Hamish asked confusedly, pressing his face into the sheets as he yawned again.

"Yes, Hamish. He's helping Mycroft with a case and might not be back for several days… Is that all right?"

"Stay at John?"

"Yes. I'll be right here with you the whole time."

"'Kay," Hamish said cheerfully, pushing himself up in the bed. "Good."

"Oh," John sighed in relief, closing his eyes as he rubbed another circle into the little boy's back. "Good…"

"'Es, John. Get?" Hamish asked expectantly, eyes quickly falling to his father's closet.

"Hmm? Oh! Yes, of course. I'll go get one." Giving the little boy a reassuring smile, the doctor left the bed and hurried over to Sherlock's closet. Sifting through the shirts, he quickly found the purple button-up (Hamish's favorite) and hurried back to the bed. "There you," he murmured, handing the fabric to Hamish.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed contently, burying his face in the familiar shirt that smelled of his father. "Ta, John," he whispered.

"You're very welcome, Hamish." John smiled at the little boy

 

 

 

Suspecting it would not take long for Mycroft to find the poorly-hidden headquarters, Sherlock waited out the next several hours, trying to ignore the aching feeling in his chest.

The man, Zorack, kept true to his word and every three hours would enter the tiny room and ask Sherlock for any information on his brother. And each time, the detective would refuse. By the second day, however, his captor was becoming more and more impatient. As a result, each time Sherlock would refuse to release any information on his brother, he would earn a single blow.

By the end of the second day, Sherlock's cheeks were battered and bruised, his arms and back colored with bruises and his whole body ached with want to see his son. Focusing on the comforting thoughts of his son, the detective remained strong throughout the beatings… Even when they doubled on the third day.

 

 

 

By the third day, it was clear Hamish was missing his father. The little boy had started to carry his father's purple shirt with him wherever he went, and had even begun to sleep the fabric, clutching it close as he slept.

John had also started to notice that the little boy was becoming much more emotional, crying more often and becoming upset and flustered with very simple tasks.

Having received no word from Mycroft, the doctor was becoming increasingly worried with the thought that his friend might already be dead… Which would mean Hamish's care would be entirely in his hands.

Trying to shove the thought away and remain positive, John gazed down at Hamish with fond eyes. The little boy had fallen asleep on the floor, halfway through a Thomas the Tank Engine episode.

Careful not to wake him, John crouched down and pulled the little boy into his arms. Knowing he would probably wake up at some point during the night to come sleep with him, as he had the past two nights, the doctor just placed Hamish's sleeping form on the couch, careful not to pull Sherlock's shirt out from his tiny grasp.

"Oh, Hamish," he sighed sadly, running his fingers over the little boy's cheek and brushing some hair out of his eyes.

Just as he was about to pull away, though, he felt a buzzing in his pocket. Hope swelling in his chest, John quickly pulled the mobile out and held it to his hear. "Mycroft?"

"John, we found him. Get outside; I have a car waiting. Do not bring Hamish."

"Yes." Heart pounding with adrenaline, the doctor quickly rushed downstairs and quickly asked Mrs. Hudson to watch Hamish before rushing outside and into the waiting car.

 

 

 

Expecting that Mycroft had probably identified his location by now, Sherlock leaned against the grey wall, waiting for the next beating he knew would be coming soon.

Though he refused to give his captor's the satisfaction by showing it, Sherlock was absolutely exhausted. He had not slept once since arriving, and in the days prior to the kidnapping had gotten limited amounts of sleep, as well. Not to mention the lack of fluid intake.

Understanding how everything was going to play out, and knowing that Zorack would return in a few moments to ask the same question again, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out Hamish's magnifying glass. Smiling wistfully at the object, the detective quickly brushed the pad of his thumb over the glass and felt a sad constricting in his chest.

Sherlock didn't even bother to look up as he heard the door slowly creak open.

"Now, Mr. Holmes. I will ask you again. Do you—"

"No," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, not allowing his gaze to leave the glass in his hands.

Practically vibrating with anger, Zorack rushed over and threw the small object across the room before turning on the detective, hand clenched into fists.

Sherlock winced slightly as he heard the loud crash of the glass shattering against the wall and felt a strong pang of guilt and sadness course through his veins as he caught a glimpse of the broken remains lying on the ground.

"I have asked and asked and asked!" Zorack screamed, quickly punching Sherlock across his cheek. "And nothing! Do you not want to see your child again? Not that I'm surprised. As if someone like you could possibly love a child," he spat, landing another blow to the detective's face.

Though he had been able to remain completely calm through all of the other beatings, refusing to show pain so Zorack would have the satisfaction, Sherlock felt an anger burning deep in his stomach at the man's words. Knowing John was on his way and Mycroft was already here (clear from a distinct change in Zorack's behavior several hours ago), the Sherlock quickly kicked his captor in the stomach and in one swift move and traveled to the other side of the room and grabbed a large shard of glass, using it as his weapon.

Stunned from the kick, Zorack quickly collapsed onto the ground, clutching his stomach. Anger still burning through his chest, Sherlock rushed over crouched down, getting close to the man's face. "Do not… Speak of my son… Ever again." With another final kick, Sherlock grabbed Zorack's keys and rushed out of the room, gulping in the a large amount of the fresh air circulating through the hallway. Before continuing, he turned and locked the door behind him.

Remembering how they had entered the building, Sherlock quickly turned to his left and hurried down the corridor, prepared to attack if necessary. He stopped however, leaning against the wall for support as the lack of energy started to wear down on him, upon hearing a series of gunshots. "John," he sighed in relief, knowing that Mycroft would have called the doctor.

Using that tiny surge of hope as his energy, Sherlock shoved away from the wall and hurried down the corridor, taking long strides as he went.

By the time the detective found John, near the entrance, he had only come across two men. Glad to see his friend's familiar face, Sherlock rushed over to the doctor. "John," he breathed, eyes quickly scanning around behind him for any more attackers. He could see Mycroft's people ushering several men into police cars.

"Are you all right?" John asked, keeping his gun poised and ready in case there should be any more attackers.

"I'm fine. Hamish?"

"He's all right, just…" John paused upon turning and seeing his friend's battered face for the first time. "God," he muttered sadly, taking in the many cuts and bruises. "Sherlock I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, waving the thought away with a slight shake of his head. "John, I need you to take me to him. Now. Mycroft can finish everything here."

"Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry." With a quick scan around, the doctor lowered his gun and turned, gesturing for Sherlock to follow as he hurried out the entrance.

"Where's my brother?" the detective asked tiredly as John led him to one of Mycroft's cars.

"Don't know. He just called me, told me to get in the car, and when I got here all of this—" the doctor briefly gestured to Mycroft's men ushering the captors into a van. "—was already happening."

"I see. Probably not ready to face me just yet."

"How do you mean?" John asked confusedly as the car started up and quickly drove away from the scene.

"Explain later. How's Hamish?"

"He's all right. He was starting to get a little worried, I think. You remember when I told you that when you leave, I give him one of your shirts to hold on to?"

"Yes."

"Well he refused to let of it today and started sleeping with it, which has never happened before. But don't worry, I didn't tell him… You know. He thinks you left to help Mycroft on a case."

"Excellent," Sherlock sighed in relief, though he was still saddened by the thought of his son clutching so eagerly to his shirt, which clearly signaled anxiety.

"Are you all right?"

"Hmm? Me? Yes, fine… Fine," Sherlock murmured, anxious to get home to his son.

"Okay… Could you go a little faster, please?" John asked the driver, clearly sensing his friend's distress.

 

 

 

As soon as the car reached the flat, Sherlock bolted for the door (as well as he could) and entered the flat, desperate to see his son.

"Oh! Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried quietly upon seeing the state of the detective. Hurrying down the stairs, she quickly cradled Sherlock's face in her hand, frowning sadly at the many cuts. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock whispered, giving the woman a friendly smile. "I promise. Where is he?"

"Oh. He's upstairs. Still sleeping." With a quick kiss to his forehead, Mrs. Hudson escaped to her flat, wanting to give them some time alone, as she tried to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.

Using the wall for support, and with a little help from John, Sherlock stumbled up the stairs, trying to fight away the dizziness he felt as he leaned against the doorframe for support.

Sherlock's entire body froze, however, upon seeing Hamish lying on the couch with one of his shirts clutched to his chest, the little boy's form curled around the fabric as he slept.

Both out of exhaustion and relief at seeing his son, the detective collapsed to his knees, bittersweet tears stinging his eyes. "Hamish," he whispered breathlessly, staring at the little boy's sleeping from. Choking something between a laugh of relief and a sob, Sherlock felt a single hot tear slide out of the corner of his eye as he watched his son's gentle breathing, saw how one of his shirts was clutched between the little boy's chubby hands.

Upon hearing his father's voice, Hamish awoke with a tiny sigh, his eyes slowly fluttering open as he subconsciously clutched Sherlock's shirt closer. "Da'ey?" he mumbled hopefully, sitting up on the couch and looking around the flat in an attempt to find his father.

"Hamish," Sherlock murmured again, chest heaving with an overwhelming sense of emotion and love for his son. "I'm here." Smiling sadly and with tears quickly filling his eyes, the detective grasped onto the wall with one hand and opened his arm, silently beckoning for his son's embrace.

"Daddy!" Hamish gasped. Shirt instantly forgotten, the little boy quickly slid off the couch and hurried towards his father, a wide grin gracing his beautiful features. "Daddy!" he sighed, tears steadily filling his eyes as he ran into Sherlock's welcoming arms.

"I'm so sorry, Hamish," the detective breathed, leaning against the doorframe for support as he wrapped his arms around the little boy's tiny body. Somehow his son's form seemed even smaller in his arms as he held him close, frantically running his fingers over Hamish's curls, his back, his arms. "I'm so sorry. I didn't meant to leave for such a long time. I've just... I missed you so much, Hamish," Sherlock barely managed, voice just a whisper as an overwhelming stream of emotions crashed over him; made his heart ache in his chest. "I love you so much, Hamish... And I'm very sorry."

"Da'ey..." Sniffling as a few hot tears slid down his sweet cheeks, Hamish pressed himself further into Sherlock, clutching onto the detective's coat as he sniffled. "Daddy," he sighed gratefully, thankful to be back in his father's comforting arms. "Hame miss," he cried, scrambling upwards in an attempt to move closer to the detective.

"I know. I know you have... I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered, using much of the energy he had left to lift the little boy upwards, pressing his small body as close as he could and burying his face in his son's curls, nearly falling over as a new wave of emotions and exhaustion crashed over him. "I love you, Hamish. And I need you to know that, all right? I'm so sorry I left," he breathed, quickly pressing frantic kisses to the little boy's auburn hair and cheeks, wanting to keep his son safely wrapped in his arms, almost as reassurance for both of them that the other was not leaving.

"Sherlock," John whispered softly, placing a hand on the detective's shoulder.

"Yes. Yes, I know... John? Please, I... I can't leave him," Sherlock murmured, allowing a few more tears to slip free as he tucked Hamish's head under his chin, running a soothing palm up and down the little boy's back.

"All right," the doctor murmured eventually, smiling sadly at his two flat mates. "Come on. We can bring him with us."

With a quick breath of relief, Sherlock curled forward, wrapping his entire body around Hamish's small form and pressing another quick, loving kiss atop the little boy's curls. "Come on, Hamish," he murmured. With the help of John and leaning against the wall for additional support, the detective stood, and pulled Hamish onto his chest before making his way down the stairs and into the cab waiting outside.

"Hmm," the little boy sighed, quickly snuggling further into his father's hold as they made their way down the stairs. "Daddy," he whispered quietly, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck as they entered the cab.

"I'm right here... I promise," the detective murmured comfortingly, leaning back against the seat of the cab as John slid in behind him. "Look at me," he urged quietly, placing a tender hand to the back of his son's head. Glad that in the dim light his son would not be able to see the cuts he knew were covering his cheeks, Sherlock waited patiently as Hamish hesitantly leaned back in his arms. He frowned sadly as he felt the little boy's grip tighten on his coat.

"Daddy," Hamish whispered softly, staring up at his father with wide, sad.

"Shh... It's all right," Sherlock murmured, running the back of his fingertips across the little boy's chubby, tear-stained cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, Hamish. I promise. I'm here. I'm not leaving... Oh, Hamish. Please don't cry. I promise. I'm right here..." Eyes quickly filling with tears again, the detective leaned forward, pressing his lips to the tip of Hamish's nose. "I'm right here," he whispered against the little boy's skin.

With a tiny sigh, Hamish's eyes fluttered closed with the kiss and he fell forward, head bumping against Sherlock's collarbone as he leaned into the detective's chest, chest heaving as he desperately tried to stay awake.

"Shh... Hamish, it's all right. You can rest now. I promise, I'll explain everything later. But for now... Just sleep... You've been such a brave little boy, Hamish. And I am so proud of you. I missed you so much."

"'Ove, Daddy?"

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed sadly, leaning back once again so he could stare into his son's deep green eyes. "I will always love you. I love you more than you can possibly imagine, Hamish." Giving the tired little boy a reassuring smile, the detective reached forward and placed his palm across Hamish's chest. "I love you with all my heart," he whispered. "And nothing—no matter how long we may be away from each other—is going to change that... I love you, Hamish."

"Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, a tiny smile spreading across his face at his father's words. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered, reaching forward to place a tiny hand to Sherlock's chest, covering his heart. "'Ove heart, Daddy."

Unable to stop the huge swell of love fluttering through his chest, Sherlock reached down, taking his son's tiny hand in his own and pulled it to his lips, pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's chubby palm. "Thank you, Hamish," he murmured against the skin. "I love you."

"Mmm-hmm." Eyes quickly drooping and fluttering open and closed, Hamish leaned forward, tiredly resting his head against Sherlock's chest and snuggling forward into the detective's middle. "See... Seep, Daddy?" he asked quietly, eyes already slipping shut as he rested his weight against Sherlock's chest.

"Of course, Hamish. Sleep. I'll stay right here with you, all right? I love you." Smiling lovingly at his son, Sherlock watched with gentle eyes as Hamish's hand curled in his own, and as the little boy quickly fell asleep, a content smile resting on his lips. "Goodnight," he whispered, pressing his son's hand close to his chest and covering it with his own.

"He's going to be all right, Sherlock," John assured gently, smiling at his two flat mates.

"I know, I know... I just..."

"It's okay. No need to explain; I understand."

"Thank you, John."

 

 

 

When the trio arrived at the hospital, Hamish was still sleeping soundly against Sherlock's chest, a hand clutching a fistful of the his father's shirt as it rested safely underneath the detective's own fingers.

Careful not to wake him, Sherlock slowly followed John out of the cab, keeping Hamish's sleeping form nestled safely against his chest.

"All right," John sighed, returning from the check-in counter. "They just want to do a general check-up, but they doubt you'll need to be kept overnight. They do want to see you immediately, though. So how about I take him while you head in?"

"Yes." Staring down at his son with loving eyes, Sherlock—almost reluctantly—passed the slumbering boy to John. "Thank you."

"Of course."

 

 

 

John waited patiently with Hamish sleeping in his arms, thankful the little boy was actually sleeping peacefully...

"Ah. Here we are," he sighed quietly as he saw Sherlock emerge from the office. "There you go." Giving his friend a reassuring smile, John quickly passed Hamish back.

The little boy stirred slightly at the movement, but, upon realizing he was safely in his father's arms, Hamish quickly fell back to sleep.

"Shh," Sherlock murmured, running his fingertips of the back of his son's head, smiling at the familiar feel of the little boy's curls against his skin and realizing how much he'd truly missed it.

"And?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Free to go home, just need rest, unhealthy eating habits, nothing I didn't already know."

"Right," John chuckled, shaking his head as he made his way towards the exit, with Sherlock following closely behind.

 

 

 

 

When the three reached the flat, Sherlock felt so exhausted, he wasn't sure he was going to make it up the stairs. After taking a deep breath, and pressing a quick kiss to Hamish's temple, the detective slowly slid out of the cab after John and made his way to the flat.

Hamish awoke about halfway up the stairs, jostled awake by the movement. "Hmm... Da'ey?" he murmured into Sherlock's chest.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm right here," the detective murmured, quickly clearing the last few steps. "We're home now. It's all right."

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy." Snuggling further into his father's hold as he yawned, Hamish shifted, moving upward and pressing his cheek to the base of Sherlock's neck, absentmindedly twirling a lock of the detective's curly hair between his tiny fingers.

"Right," John sighed, tucking his keys into his pocket as they finally entered the flat. "You need to go sleep. Now," the doctor said seriously, raising an eyebrow at his friend.

"Believe me, I know," Sherlock chuckled half-heartedly, glancing down as Hamish shifted in his arms.

Giving the two a small smile, John moved forward, gently patting the detective on the arm. "Would you like a moment with him?"

"Please."

"Of course..."

Giving his friend a tired, yet thankful smile, Sherlock bent down, resting his cheek atop Hamish's small head as he turned back towards his room.

"Seep, Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly, voice muffled against the detective's coat as he spoke.

"Yes, Hamish. We're going to sleep... But first," Sherlock sighed, wincing slightly as he knelt down on the ground. "I need to tell you something." Knowing Hamish would notice the many cuts littering his skin, now that there was more light, the detective slowly eased his son's body away from his own, gently holding the little boy by his arms.

"Hamish," he whispered quickly as he saw his son's eyes widen with sadness upon seeing the gashes covering his cheeks.

"Daddy," the little boy gasped, gripping onto the sleeve of his father's shirt as his eyes frantically flitted over the detective's bruised face. "Daddy!"

"Shh, Hamish, listen to me. I'm all right, just please listen..." Sherlock murmured frantically, running his fingertips up and down his son's small arms. "Here. Look right at me, Hamish. Shh, I'm all right."

Sniffling and with tears quickly filling his eyes, Hamish looked anxiously into his father's steel-grey eyes, tiny chest heaving with worried breaths.

"I'm right here, Hamish," Sherlock whispered comfortingly, reaching up to cradle the little boy's head in the palm of his hand. "And I promise... I am not going to leave you. Hamish, I need you to listen to me very carefully, all right? Can you do that for me?" he asked softly, giving his son a reassuring smile.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered softly, leaning into the detective's touch.

"Hamish," Sherlock began, eyes quick scanning over his son's beautiful face, drinking in the features he'd missed so much over the past days. "I love you, Hamish... I love you more than words can describe. And I will never—never—leave you. I am always going to be here with you, and I need you to know that... And I am so sorry that I left. But I need you to know that just because I had to go for a little while, it doesn't mean I love you any less. You are my son, Hamish, and I love you so incredibly much, I... I didn't even think it was possible to feel this much love for one person," Sherlock breathed, eyes quickly welling with tears as he stared at his son. "I'm so sorry... I'm not going to leave you, Hamish. I couldn't bear it. I will always be here to love and protect you," he whispered, moving his hand and placing it over Hamish's tiny chest. "Always... I'm not leaving. I'm right here."

"Daddy," the little boy whispered, a small smile dancing across his lips as tears of joy filled his impossibly deep green eyes. "Daddy!" Sniffling, Hamish rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing himself as close to the detective as he could. "Hame 'ove, Daddy," he whispered against the detective's skin at the base of his neck. "Hame miss."

"I know. I know, you did... I missed you so much, too, Hamish," Sherlock cried softly, wrapping his arms around Hamish's small body and pulling him closer. "But I'm here now... I've got you."

Overcome with emotion and tiredness, Sherlock leaned against the side of the bed as he ran a soothing hand up and down his son's back, feeling a rush of warmth flood his chest. "I've got you."

"'Es, Daddy... Hame stay?"

"Yes. You can stay with me," Sherlock murmured as he pressed a soft kiss to Hamish's curls.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

With a tiny sigh, the little boy backed away from his father's embrace, a tiny smile brightening his entire face.

Sherlock watched with a fond gaze as Hamish studied his face with concentrated eyes, beautiful features scrunching together as he thought.

"Ouch, Daddy," the little boy murmured sadly. Carefully, so as not to hurt his father, Hamish took one of his chubby hands and moved it closer and closer to Sherlock's cheeks.

"It's all right, Hamish," the detective encouraged gently.

Eyes quickly flitting to his father's light grey irises, Hamish continued placing an incredibly gentle hand to Sherlock's cheek, just under the large gash that flew across his cheekbone. "Ouch, Daddy," he whispered sadly, taking in all of the tiny cuts and bruises. "Ouch?"

Smiling sadly at his son, Sherlock reached forward and brushed his thumb over the little boy's own cheek, tracing up his cheekbone. "Only a little," he lied, not wanting to worry Hamish anymore than he already had.

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief, fingers gently curling against the detective's skin as he smiled. "'Kay, Daddy. Kiss?"

"That would be lovely, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, watching with gentle eyes as the little boy pulled his hand away and scooted forward. Closing his eyes, the detective lowered his head so as to allow easier access for Hamish.

With one hand on his father's collarbone for balance, Hamish leaned forward and pressed his lips to the corner of Sherlock's lips in an incredibly tender kiss. "Daddy," he sighed against the skin, closing his eyes as he reached up, pressing his chubby palm to the detective's neck.

"I'm here, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, leaning forward and wrapping his son in a comforting embrace. "I'm here."

"Seep, Daddy?"

Chuckling softly, Sherlock turned, and pressed a tender kiss of his own to Hamish's temple. "Of course. Come on." Using his last bit of energy, the detective stood, pulling Hamish up with him, discarded his coat, and slid into the bed.

Fighting to keep his eyes open, Sherlock waited patiently while the little boy got situated.

"Seep, Daddy," Hamish whispered, crawling on top of the detective's chest. "Seep."

Smiling lovingly at his son, Sherlock reached up and splayed his fingers across the little boy's back. "I love you so much," he murmured, giving Hamish a warm smile.

"'Ove, Daddy," the little boy whispered. "Seep now." Giving his father a smile of his own, Hamish crawled forward until he was practically sitting on Sherlock's face. "Seep, Daddy," he whispered, as he pressed a gentle hand to his father's cheek. "Seep."

Smiling underneath Hamish's comforting touch, Sherlock's eyes started to slowly slip shut. "Hamish," he whispered, hand starting to go limp.

"Nigh', Daddy," the little boy whispered, bending down to press another gentle kiss to his father's nose. "Hame 'ove. Heart." With slow, careful movement, Hamish took his father's much larger hand and moved it to his chest, covering his heart, before doing the same and placing both of his chubby hands to Sherlock's chest. "'Ove, Daddy."

Unable to stop the swell of love in his chest, Sherlock reached leaned forward, barely noticing as a few hot tears slid free, and pressed his lips to Hamish's forehead.

"I love you with all my heart," he whispered, lips brushing against his son's smooth skin as he spoke.

"Hmm." Sighing contently and with a small smile, Hamish slid off of Sherlock's chest. "Nigh' nigh," he whispered, snuggling against the detective's side.

"Goodnight, Hamish. Thank you so much," Sherlock murmured, wrapping an arm around Hamih's tiny body and pulling him closer. "I love you."

Smiling as he felt his son nuzzle closer to his side, Sherlock allowed his eyes to slide shut, quickly falling asleep with the comfort of Hamish at his side.

"Hmm," Hamish sighed contently, closing his eyes and draping his arm across his father's chest as he smiled, glad to be wrapped in the comfort of Sherlock's arms. "'Ove, Daddy." With a small smile of his own, Hamish took a deep breath, and with a fistful of the detective's shirt clutched between his fingers, the little boy fell asleep, father and son finally united once again.


	34. Babysitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just wanted to say that I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving! (And a wonderful break for all who had one!) Also, if you read the previous chapter before about 5:00 on Wednesday, basically all of the middle was missing! =/ I had copied and pasted it, and for some reason, much was omitted, so if you would prefer to read that again, it might actually make sense. Thanks guys! Also, please excuse the errors in this! =) I'm incredibly tired and exhausted, so I will try to fix those as soon as possible. Thanks guys! Have a great rest of your weekend! =)

"Hamish?" John whispered softly as he pushed open the door to Sherlock's room. He paused in the doorway upon seeing Hamish, wide awake, snuggled closely to the detective's side, tracing patterns across his father's collarbone with his tiny, chubby fingers.

"He'o, John," Hamish whispered quietly, giving the doctor a tiny smile as he shifted slightly, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hey, little man." Smiling, and taking careful steps so as not to wake his friend, John slowly moved towards the bed. "How about you come sleep with me tonight, hmm?" he asked quietly. "So we can give Daddy some time to rest, yeah?"

"No 'ease, John," the little boy answered softly, absentmindedly snuggling closer to the detective.

"You sure, Hame? I think Daddy might get more sleep if—"

"No, John. Daddy need."

"Hame," John started gently, giving the little boy a warm smile as he moved closer. He paused, however, as Sherlock shifted in the bed. The doctor watched with careful eyes as his flat mate's breath started to quicken, and suddenly felt incredibly sad for his friend; he'd had more than his fair share of nightmare's and understood the fear that accompanied them.

Chest heaving up and down with short, quick breaths, Sherlock's hand clenched into a fist where it was resting against his chest, as his eyebrows pulled together, forming an almost pained expression as his whole body visibly tensed.

"Daddy?" Hamish whispered gently, quickly sitting up in the bed and grabbing a fistful of his father's shirt. With sad eyes, the little boy scooted upwards, crawling onto Sherlock's chest, and laid down, pressing his cheek against the detective's neck as he snuggled into Sherlock's chest. "Daddy," he whispered again, tiny lips brushing against his father's skin as he spoke.

John watched with fond eyes as his flat mate's breathing quickly returned to normal, and couldn't help but smile when he saw Sherlock's hand subconsciously unclench and slide up to rest on Hamish's back.

"Daddy need Hame," Hamish whispered, pressing his small form even closer to the detective.

"Yes," John murmured, unable to help himself from smiling. "I suppose he does, doesn't he?"

"'Es, John. Hame stay. Daddy sa... Saf'."

"You're going to keep Daddy safe?"

"'Es. Hame stay 'ease, John?" Saf' Daddy?" Hamish asked hopefully, twisting his small form so he could see the doctor.

Giving the little boy a warm smile, John moved closer to the bed and, careful not to wake Sherlock, bent down and pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's temple. "Of course you can stay. Keep him safe for me, okay?" he whispered playfully, ruffling the little boy's hair.

"'Kay, John," Hamish giggled, closing his eyes as a content smile graced his lips. "Nigh' night, John."

"Goodnight, Hame," John chuckled, gently patting the little boy on the back before slipping out of the room.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed contently, opening his eyes to stare up at his father's now-peaceful face. "Daddy," he whispered, scooting closer to Sherlock and nuzzling against the detective's jaw. Bottom lip protruding slightly, the little boy reached down and wrapped his chubby fingers around Sherlock's hand, which was resting on the bed. "Nigh', Daddy," he whispered, pulling his father's fingers to his chest and wrapping his tiny arms the detective's wrist.

Sherlock awoke with a small shudder at the movement, taking a quick intake of breath as his eyes opened. Blinking slowly and closing his fingers in an effort to gauge his surroundings, the detective couldn't help but smile as he felt Hamish on his chest.

"Hamish?" he whispered gently, rubbing his fingertips up and down his son's tiny back.

"Daddy? Daddy up?" Hamish asked quietly, gazing up at the detective with wide eyes.

"Hmm. Yes," Sherlock yawned, absentmindedly pulling the little boy closer. "Did I wake you?"

"No, Daddy. Hame up," Hamish declared cheerfully, haphazardly pushing his chubby hands against his father's jaw and collarbone as he sat up.

"You've been up this whole time?"

"Mmm-hmm. Stay at Daddy an' Daddy saf'!"

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a flutter of warmth dance through his chest at his son's words. "You needed to stay to keep me safe?" he asked softly, running his fingertips over Hamish's forehead.

"'Es, Daddy. Good?"

"Very good," Sherlock murmured, bending upward and smiling as he pressed a tender kiss to his son's cheek. "You've done an excellent job so far... Thank you very much, Hamish. That was incredibly thoughtful of you."

"Ta, Daddy. 'Etter?" Hamish asked worriedly, bending forward to inspect his father's battered face.

"I'm alright, Hamish," the detective murmured, placing a reassuring hand on the little boy's back. "I promise. Just... A little more rest, and I'll be fine."

"Oh," he sighed in relief, sitting back on Sherlock's chest as a small smile spread across his lips. "'Kay, Daddy."

"Aren't you tired?" Sherlock chuckled lovingly, quickly rolling on his side and allowing Hamish to gently slide from his chest.

"No, Daddy!" the little boy giggled, throwing his chubby hands in the air as he grinned.

"No?" the detective sighed incredulously, propping himself up on his elbow as he began to gently tickle Hamish's bare stomach. "Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we?"

"No! No, Daddy!" the little boy laughed, desperately trying to shove his father's hand away. "'Ease, Daddy!"

Chuckling fondly at his son's efforts, Sherlock leaned forward, taking the little boy's tiny hands in his own and started to pepper ticklish kisses all over Hamish's cheeks and bare stomach.

"Da! Daddy!" Little face scrunching up as he laughed, Hamish squirmed happily, trying to escape his father's ticklish kisses. "Daddy!" he gasped.

"Alright, alright," Sherlock chuckled, his deep, baritone voice filling the quiet room and mixing with his son's light giggles. "Sorry," he murmured, hovering over Hamish's tiny form. Smiling with warm eyes, the detective bent down and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of the little boy's nose, keeping his tiny hands wrapped safely in his own fingers.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed happily, blinking slowly as Sherlock placed a tender kiss to his nose. "Daddy," he whispered gently. With a content smile on his face, the little boy pulled one his hands from the detective's grasp and placed it it to the Sherlock's jaw, splaying his chubby fingers over the skin.

"Daddy 'kay?" he whispered, fingers curling against his father's skin as he stared up at the detective, his deep green eyes wide with worry.

Eyes suddenly going sad as he gazed down at his son, Sherlock sat back and gently pulled Hamish into his lap. "Yes, Hamish," he murmured, running his fingertips through the little boy's silky curls as he leaned back against the headboard. "I promise I'm okay." Hoping to give his son some sort of comfort, Sherlock gave Hamish a warm smile and pulled him close to his chest, giving the little boy a tight hug.

"Daddy," Hamish whispered, gently shoving away from the detective's chest and giving him a look that clearly said he was not convinced. "Daddy 'kay?"

Sherlock stared at his son with a careful gaze for a few moments, steel-grey eyes slowly scanning his son's features. "Hamish?" he started gently, turning Hamish in his lap so the little boy's back was pressed against his middle. "Do you remember, quite a while ago, when I told you that I never want you to feel sad for me? Because I want you to be happy?"

Hamish thought for a moment, leaning back into his father's comforting embrace before looking up, tilting his head so he could see the detective's eyes. "'Es, Daddy. No Daddy Hame sad."

"Exactly," Sherlock praised encouragingly, running a thumb across his son's bare stomach. "Hamish, what happened to me was not your fault. And I don't want you to feel sad for me, alright? I want you to be happy... Can you do that for me?" he asked gently, turning Hamish in his lap so they were face-to-face.

"Bu... Bu Daddy ouch," the little boy whispered sadly, placing an incredibly tender hand to Sherlock's cheek. "An' Hame Daddy saf'."

Smiling at his son's words, the detective closed his eyes and leaned into Hamish's gentle touch. "I know," he murmured, opening his eyes and feeling his breath suddenly dissipate in his throat as he gazed into the little boy's strikingly beautiful eyes; as he saw the concern and love his son clearly had for him. "Oh, Hamish," he murmured sadly, pressing the little boy's hand closer to his cheek as he tried to catch his breath. "You're right... I do need you to keep me safe, after all. But just... Can you make me a promise, Hamish?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish whispered, curling his fingers against the hollow in his father's cheek.

"Can you promise me that you won't be sad for me? Please?"

Hamish paused for a moment, his wide eyes carefully scanning over his father's pale face. "'Kay, Daddy. No Hame sad... Bu' Hame stay at Daddy so saf'?" he asked hopefully, chubby fingers wrapping around the collar of Sherlock's shirt.

"I would love that, Hamish. You'll stay and keep me safe?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Promise?"

"Mmm-hmm. P... Prom'kiss."

Chuckling fondly at his son, Sherlock slid down the headboard, resting against the bed and waiting patiently as Hamish got situated, watching with loving eyes as the little boy sat up on his chest.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish declared expectantly, holding a single, tiny hand in front of the detective's face.

Brows pulling together in confusion, Sherlock's gaze quickly slid from his son's outstretched hand to his expectant eyes.

"Hame help," the little boy stated, raising his eyebrows at his father. "Daddy," he giggled, when it was clear the detective was not understanding. Smiling contently to himself, Hamish reached behind him, and with a small grunt of effort, tugged Sherlock's hand up until it was resting in his lap. "Hame help," he explained, offering his hand once again, and gently tapping on the detective's fingers arm with his free hand.

"Ah. I see." Unable to contain his smile, Sherlock reached up and wrapped his slender fingers around Hamish's tiny hand. "Thank you, Hamish," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the little boy's cheek. "I love you..."

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish yawned, half-leaning, half-collpasing forward onto the detective's chest as he pulled Sherlock's hand close to his tiny body, wrapping his free arm around the detective's wrist as he yawned again.

"You're probably tired, aren't you?" Sherlock murmured sadly, remembering vaguely that John had mentioned Hamish had not been sleeping well the past few days.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy sighed contently, curling his small form around the detective's arm as he snuggled into his father's chest. "Hame here," he whispered, pressing a tired kiss to Sherlock's thumb.

"I know you are, Hamish," the detective chuckled fondly. "Thank you for keeping me safe."

"Hmm... Good, Daddy."

 

 

 

Sherlock quickly recovered over the next several days, his nightmares soon dissipating with the comfort of Hamish's tiny form close every night.

Eventually, after much help (and fits) from Hamish, Sherlock's eating was back on schedule and he had gained most of his strength back, seeing as the little boy would refuse to do much else until his father had consumed at least two meals a day, one of which was usually hand fed to the detective by him.

And, though he tried to pretend otherwise, Sherlock was immensely grateful to have John's help as well as the comfort of his son closeby.

 

 

 

"No 'ease, Daddy," Hamish declared, crossing his chubby arms across his chest as he glared up at his father, bottom lip protruding in a firm pout.

"Hamish," Sherlock warned, raising an eyebrow at the little boy, who was clothed only in a t-shirt and nappy. "We are going out. You must wear pants."

"No 'ease, Daddy," Hamish repeated, quickly plopping down on the floor as he huffed a small breath of disagreement.

"Yes. Pants, or you don't get to go see Lestrade with us."

"No Unk Lestrade?" Hamish gasped quietly, eyes suddenly going wide as he stared up at Sherlock's tall form.

"Nope. John and I will go without you and you can stay here all by yourself," the detective tried, forcing himself to keep a straight face as he watched Hamish's eyes widen even more.

"'Eave, Hame?"

Grasping the tiny pair of trousers in his fingers, Sherlock crouched down and held the pants out in front of him. "Pants?" he asked quietly, quirking an eyebrow at his son's clearly-shocked form.

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish cried quickly, curls bobbing slightly as he fervently nodded up and down.

"That's what I thought," Sherlock smirked lightheartedly, chuckling slightly as he watched Hamish quickly stand up.

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy sighed, bracing himself as he splayed his two chubby hands across his father's shoulders.

"Very good." Giving Hamish a quick kiss on the cheek, Sherlock pulled on his son's tiny pants, chuckling as the little boy wobbled and fell forward against him. "Sorry," he chuckled, pulling the little boy into his arms.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled, draping one of his arms over the detective's shoulder as they made their way to the landing, where John was leaning against doorframe.

"Alright," Sherlock sighed dramatically, giving his son a knowing smile. "Shoes," he stated plainly.

"Daddy!" Hamish whined, leaning forward and pressing his tiny face into Sherlock's neck as he frowned. "No 'ease?" he asked quietly, voice muffled as he spoke against his father's skin.

Absentmindedly swaying back and forth, Sherlock thought for a moment, ignoring the smirks John was shooting him. "Socks," he compromised eventually, cheek brushing against Hamish's auburn curls as he turned towards the little boy.

Frowning as he contemplated, Hamish relaxed, turning so his cheek was resting against Sherlock's collarbone. "'Kay, Daddy," he sighed eventually, automatically sticking a tiny leg out in preparation as he sighed deeply, giving his father what almost looked like an eye roll.

"Well!" John laughed, quickly grabbing a pair of the little boy's socks and passing it to his flat mate. "We certainly know whose son he is, don't we?" he chuckled smugly, watching as Sherlock managed to slip the incredibly tiny socks onto each of Hamish's feet, using only one hand.

"Please," Sherlock groaned as he quickly situated both Hamish and his scarf, giving the doctor an eye roll of his own. "He most definitely does not get that from me."

"Right. Nope. Don't know where on earth he gets it from," John sighed, following as his flat mate hurried down the stairs.

"You don't get that from me, do you?" Sherlock whispered playfully into Hamish's ear, smirking as the little boy started to giggle in his arms.

"No, Daddy," Hamish whispered back, giggling madly.

"Exactly." With a sly smile, the detective turned back to smirk briefly at John before hurrying out into the brisk London air, quickly hailing a cab.

 

 

 

"When was she found?" Sherlock asked curiously, gazing at the large photos Lestrade had given him when they arrived at the Yard.

"Yesterday."

"Mmm. Dead for how long?"

"Three days."

"Interesting. Very few signs of decomposition. Identified her yet?"

"Uh, no. No, not yet."

"Excellent," the detective sighed sarcastically. "John? What would that be?" he asked curiously, passing the photo to the doctor.

"Uhh... Well... To me that looks like... A lesion of some sort. It's deep. But—" John's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his phone going off. "Oops! It's Molly. Excuse me."

"John," Sherlock groaned crossing his legs impatiently as the doctor hurried out of Lestrade's office.

"Be back in a moment."

"Fine... Where's Hamish gone?" Sherlock asked worriedly, turning around in one of the Inspector's chairs as he looked through the glass walls, trying to find his son.

"Probably terrorizing Donovan again," Lestrade chuckled.

"Mmm," the detective hummed in reply, lips twitching into a smile at the thought. "Hamish?" he called softly into the open office, observant eyes quickly scanning the desks. He frowned slightly as he saw the little boy, sat up on Anderson's desk, scribbling contently on a sheet of paper.

For some reason, Hamish had taken quite a liking to Anderson, despite his father's adamant protests. The little boy had been dismayed at first when he learned that Sally and Anderson were girlfriend and boyfriend (John's explanation for what Sherlock had started to explain), but quickly recovered, and returned to spending time with Anderson whenever they came to the Yard.

"Hamish!" he called, giving the little boy a warm smile in the hope that it would draw him away.

"Hmm? Daddy!" Spotting his father, Hamish grabbed the drawing in his chubby fingers, clutching it close to his chest as he attempted to jump off the desk, only to be caught and helped down by Anderson, which earned a significant scowl from the detective.

"What have you got there?" he asked excitedly, quickly kneeling down as the little boy hurried close, and taking the picture from his son's tiny hands.

"Draw! Like, Daddy?" Hamish asked hopefully.

"I love it!" Sherlock cried animatedly, giving his son a bright smile. He paused, however, as he gazed down at the picture, amazed yet again by how intelligent and insightful Hamish was. "This is lovely, Hamish. May I keep this one?" he murmured as he gazed down at a haphazard drawing of himself and John, each holding one of Hamish's hands, with the little boy nestled safely between them.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, giving Sherlock a cheerful smile. "Fam... Fam'ry," he stated, gently tapping the paper with a tiny finger. "Daddy, John, Hame," he whispered, pointing out each person on the paper, not noticing the way his father was studying him with an incredibly tender gaze.

"Very good, Hamish," he murmured, barely noticing as John re-entered the office. "What was that about?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly, still smiling fondly at his son's angelic face.

"Uhh, Molly needs us to babysit for her. On Wednesday."

Suddenly coming back to reality at the doctor's words, Sherlock clutched his son's drawing close and stood up, staring at John with accusing eyes. "Did you say yes?"

"Of course I did!"

"Great," Sherlock muttered under his breath, absentmindedly pulling Hamish close to his leg.

"What?" John cried, glaring at his flat mate.

"Nothing, I just... We've never had a baby with us before. I mean... I—"

"Molly? Baby?" Hamish asked curiously from where he was hovering behind Sherlock's leg, and handful of the detective's dark pants clutched in his fist.

"Oh. Yes!" John exclaimed cheerfully, turning his attention to the little boy's hidden form. "Molly's baby is going to be coming over in a few days, and we're going to watch her for a little while."

Eyes widening and mouth quickly dropping open, Hamish quickly tugged on Sherlock's trousers, already bouncing up and down with excitement. "Real, Daddy?" he gasped excitedly, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Shooting John a dismaying glare, the detective dared a glance down at his son, instantly melting as he saw how excited the little boy was. "Oh, fine," he sighed dramatically, running his palm over Hamish's back.

"Oh! Molly baby! Yay, Daddy!" the little boy cried triumphantly, pulling on his father's pant leg. "Up 'ease?"

Chuckling in spite of himself, Sherlock bent down and pulled his son's bouncing form into his arms.

"Ta, Daddy," Hamish sighed happily, wrapping his arms around the detective's neck.

"You're welcome," Sherlock laughed. "So. Wednesday, hmm?"

"Yep! Three more days," John chuckled, smiling at his two flat mates.

"Ah, Sherlock! I've just got the call, they've identified her. Her name is—"

"Doesn't matter, " the detective sighed, giving a submissive wave of his hand towards the Inspector. "It was the uncle. Call you with details later."

"Oh. Right. Great! Uhh, thanks!"

"Yes. Come along, John," Sherlock called over his shoulder as placed Hamish on the ground, leading the tottering toddler out of the office.

 

 

 

Three days later, Sherlock was awoken by the soft sound of shuffling on the other side of the bed, followed closely by Hamish's tiny voice murmuring to himself.

"Morning, Hamish," the detective yawned, not even bother to open his eyes.

"Oh. Morn', Daddy!" Hamish declared happily, not having expected his father to have already been awake. Vibrating with anticipation, the little boy hurriedly crawled over to his father's resting form, draping himself over Sherlock's middle.

"Hamish," the detective groaned, pressing his face into the pillows in an effort to fall back to sleep.

"Up 'ease, Daddy? Molly an' baby!"

"Yes, I know. Molly and her baby are coming today. However, I highly doubt they will be coming at—" A glance a the clock. "Ugh. Four A.M."

"Oh. Seep, Daddy?"

"Very. Aren't you sleepy?" Sherlock yawned, shifting slightly so his hand was resting on Hamish's back.

"No, Daddy. Up."

"Yes. I can see that... Well... How about we rest for just a few more moments, alright?"

"No up, Daddy?"

"In just a moment," Sherlock murmured tiredly, deep voice filling the dark room. "Just... A few more moments."

Frowning slightly at the arrangement, but eventually giving in, Hamish slid off of the detective's middle, tugging his father's hand with him.

"'Kay, Daddy," he yawned, draping Sherlock's limp arm over his tiny body as he snuggled close to the detective's side, realizing how tired he actually was. "Seep, Daddy," he whispered, pressing closer to his father's middle.

"Mmm-hmm," Sherlock hummed in reply, quickly falling asleep again.

 

 

 

"Molly!" Hamish cried excitedly, the puzzle he had been working on quickly forgotten with the ringing of the doorbell. "Come, Daddy!" he called, quickly toddling into the kitchen and pulling anxiously at the leg of Sherlock's pants.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," the detective chuckled, quickly scooping Hamish into his arms and hurrying down the stairs. "John! Molly!" he called behind his shoulder as he rounded the corner.

"Ah. Molly," Sherlock greeted politely as he opened the door.

"Molly!" Hamish called, a wide grin spreading across his small face. "Baby, Daddy! Baby!" he whispered loudly, pointing down at the light pink baby carriage as he simultaneously tapped the detective on he shoulder.

"Yes, yes, I see," Sherlock chuckled, welcoming Molly in and ushering her up the stairs.

"Ah! Hello, Molly!" John called cheerfully as they entered the flat.

"Hello, John! My goodness, thank you, you two for doing this on such short notice. I really appreciate it!"

"Oh, of course! It's not a problem at all! We're delighted to have her. Is she sleeping?"

"Yes. She just fell asleep, so with any luck, she should be out for a few more hours," the pathologist chuckled sweetly. "I've just got a few more bags in the cab. I'll go—"

"Hame do!" the little boy volunteered suddenly, beaming triumphantly at Molly from Sherlock's arms.

The three adults quickly shared a knowing smile, all knowing the crush Hamish had on Molly, which had been discovered on a night the little boy had told Sherlock how beautiful the pathologist was and how he'd be okay if she and her baby moved in.

"All right," Sherlock chuckled, placing his son on the ground. "Let's go get the bags." Smiling fondly, the detective reached down and took Hamish's hand in his own before leading the little boy towards the stairs.

"Thank you, again, John."

"Really, don't worry about it," the doctor assured Molly gently, giving her a warm smile. "So! Anything in particular we should know?"

"Oh! Thank you for reminding me! Yes."

John listened patiently while Molly explained everything to him, already knowing it would be an interesting day.

"Oh, and one last thing. She really enjoys being held. So when in doubt, just bounce her around for a little bit, and she should calm down. If all else fails, just sing or hum to her. She enjoys music."

"Great! I think I have everything, then. Do you want to say goodbye to her?" he asked gently, noticing the way Molly had been eyeing the baby carriage.

"Hmm? Oh. No, thank you. I'm afraid if I say goodbye now, I won't be able to leave!" she chuckled lightheartedly.

"Of course."

The two turned towards the stairs at the sound of Sherlock bustling into the flat.

Molly couldn't help but laugh as she saw the detective, two large bags slung over his shoulders, and Hamish, trailing closely behind, a large grin on his face.

"There," Sherlock sighed, placing the bags on the floor. "That was all, yes?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Molly," Hamish declared happily. Grinning, the little boy toddled forward and shoved one of the bags his father had brought up over by the baby carriage. "Hame help," he stated, smiling up at Molly.

"Yes you did, didn't you?" the pathologist laughed, bending down to press a quick kiss to the little boy's temple. "You did a very good job, Hamish... Well, I've got to be off then. I shouldn't be too long. I will be sure to be back before dark! Thanks again, you two! I really appreciate it!" With one more wistful smile at the pink baby seat and a thankful nod of her head to John and Sherlock, Molly quickly retreated down the stairs.

"Hame see?" the little boy asked immediately, slowly walking over towards the carriage.

"I suppose. But she's sleeping right now, so you'll need to be very quiet," Sherlock murmured.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy."

Sharing a quick smile with John, the detective slowly led Hamish forward and then knelt down by the baby seat, pulling away the covering. "See? She's resting."

"What na'e?" Hamish whispered, staring down at the baby with wide, observant eyes.

"Rose-Marie," John supplied softly, bending down to stare fondly at the slumbering baby. "That's a pretty name, isn't it?"

"Mmm-hmm, John. Bat'm'ful. Li'e Molly," the little boy giggled suddenly quickly covering his mouth and staring with fond eyes at the baby girl.

"Beautiful like Molly?" John chuckled, playfully ruffling Hamish's curls.

"'Es... Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Can?" he asked hopefully, pointing to the little girl's small hand.

"Yes. Just be gentle, all right? Remember, she's much smaller than you."

"'Es, Daddy." Suddenly very serious, Hamish took a single finger and, eyes quickly flitting to her face to make sure he had not harmed or woken her, touched her incredibly tiny hand.

"Mmm," the little girl sighed in her sleep, hand subconsciously reached out and wrapping around Hamish's own chubby finger.

The little boy gasped at the sudden movement, jumping slightly as Rose-Marie wrapped her hand around one of his fingers. "See, Daddy?" he whispered in amazement, quickly glancing between John and his father as he hesitantly wrapped as much of his own hand around hers as he could.

"Lit..."

"Yes, she's very little, isn't she?" John murmured, sharing a quick smile with Sherlock. "Very tiny."

 

 

 

Hamish ended up taking his first nap of the day curled up on the sitting room floor, his hand still draped inside the baby seat, Rose-Marie's hand still wrapped around his tiny finger.

Unable to help himself, and waiting until John had fled to the kitchen to make a bottle for her, Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone and snapped several pictures, feeling a fluttering in his stomach as he bent over from his perch on the couch and took a picture of his the little girl's hand wrapped tightly around his son's finger.

"It's sweet." Sherlock nearly jumped as he turned to see John, leaning against the doorway in the kitchen, smiling at him.

"Yes, I... Suppose it is," the detective murmured, quickly pocketing his mobile and turning back to gaze fondly at his slumbering son. "He's so enamored with her."

"I know," John chuckled, moving into the sitting room with a completed bottle in hand and sat down on his chair, smiling at the two slumbering children.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, bending down to run a quick hand through Hamish's auburn curls. "Do you think he gets lonely, John?" he asked quietly, expressing a worry he'd had since Molly's baby was born.

"What?" the doctor exclaimed, a little taken aback by his friend's question.

"Do you think he gets lonely? I've just worried that he might be yearning for another sibling."

"Why do you think so?

"The way he acts around Molly's baby. He told me he wanted one. A baby, I mean... But I don't know if that means he just likes the idea of having a baby or if it means he wants a younger sibling... It's just something I've been worrying over, that's all."

"Ah, I see... Well... I don't think he's lonely, if that's your concern. He always seems perfectly content to me. I think the idea of a baby is new, so therefore it's interesting, that's all," John said gently, giving his friend a reassuring smile.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock responded softly, quickly grabbing a blanket and draping it over his son's sleeping form.

 

 

 

The little boy was jolted awake by a piercing cry that echoed through the entire flat.

Sherlock, who had been resting on the couch with his eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin, nearly fell off the couch at the wail.

"John!" he called to the kitchen, suddenly unsure of what to do.

Thoroughly displeased at having been so rudely awoken, Hamish covered his ears and with a deep frown on his face, hurriedly scooted closer to Sherlock, desperately trying to crawl onto the couch and away from the sound.

"Yep, she's awake!" John chuckled, laughing at his flat mate's reactions. "Shh," he soothed, quickly bending down and undoing the harness around Rose-Marie's body and pulling her small form out of the seat.

"Shh," he whispered, grabbing the bottle and quickly slipping it into her mouth.

Both Sherlock and Hamish sighed in relief as the piercing wails finally stopped. "Sorry, Hamish," the detective sighed, reaching down and pulling the little boy onto his lap as he frowned at the now-peaceful baby. His brows pulled together slightly as he studied John, watching with observant eyes as the doctor began to gently rock back and forth, humming down to the baby in his arms.

"Oh! John! Hame do?" Hamish asked excitedly, gently tapping Sherlock on the chest as he stared at the calm baby.

"You'd like to feed her?" John chuckled, smiling fondly at the little boy.

"'Es 'ease, John. Can?" he whispered, a tiny smile pulling up the corners of his lips as the stared at the little girl.

"Sure. Why don't you see if Daddy will help you?"

"What? No, I really think you should do it, John."

"Why? It's not different than Hamish."

"She's much smaller than Hamish. What if I... Drop her or something?"

Just as he was about to pass the little girl to his flat mate's arms, John paused, almost chuckling at Sherlock's insecurities. "You won't," he promised calmly, pulling the bottle out of Rose's mouth and passing the baby to the detective.

"Ro'e!" Hamish whispered happily, quickly sliding off of his father's lap, and pressing both of his chubby hands against Sherlock's shoulder as he waited.

"There we go," John sighed, placing the little girl in his friend's arms.

Almost instantly, she began to cry, waving her tiny fists in the air as she wailed, her face scrunching in discomfort.

"What, Ro'e?" Hamish asked worriedly, a frown drawing down his lips as he stared at the crying girl.

"Nothing, Hamish," John chuckled, quickly handing Sherlock the bottle. "She's just hungry, that's all."

Understanding, the detective quickly slipped the bottle into Rose's mouth, smiling in relief as the wailing instantly stopped. "Thank goodness," he whispered. "Alright, Hamish. Would you like to come help?" he asked gently, looking over his shoulder at the little boy, who was now smiling down at the little girl, a tiny fistful of his father's shirt clutched in his hand.

"Hmm? Oh. 'Es, Daddy! What do?"

"How about you hold the bottle, hmm?" Sherlock suggested gently, looking to John for confirmation.

"'Kay, Daddy."

With the help of John, Hamish was soon situated to the left of Sherlock, sitting halfway on the detective's lap, halfway on the couch, grinning as he held the bottle up while Sherlock held Rose.

"Good, John?"

"That's excellent, Hamish! You're doing a very good job."

The flat mate's watched with fond eyes as Hamish fed Rose the rest of the bottle, taking note of the way the little boy's eyes would light up each time Rose would look at him.

"He'o Ro'e," he whispered happily after the bottle had been finished. "Hame," he stated slowly, pointing to himself. "Daddy. John. See?"

Beaming when the little girl started to giggle, Hamish quickly crawled over his father's legs and moved to the other side of the couch so he could better see Rose's face.

Sherlock and John watched with tender eyes as Hamish bent down and pressed an incredibly gentle kiss to Rose's forehead. "He'o." Giggling happily to himself, the little boy reached down and held a curious finger in front of her curled fist, gasping with happiness when she reached out, once again wrapping her tiny fingers around one of his own.

"Look, Daddy!" the little boy whispered loudly.

"Yes, yes, I see!" Sherlock cheered quietly, giving his son a warm smile. "You're doing a very good job."

"Hmm."

 

 

 

Nearly two hours later, both Rose and Hamish had fallen on Sherlock, with his son draped across his legs and the little girl resting peacefully against his chest.

"You look cosy," John chuckled, smiling at the overwhelmed look on his flat mate's face.

"How on earth do people manage with two children?" Sherlock sighed, gazing down to make sure he had not woken either child.

"Practice," John laughed, quickly pulling out his phone and taking several shots of the scene in front of him. "At least she's warmed up to you a bit," he murmured, gesturing to the sleeping little girl.

"Hmm. Yes. She looks like Molly," Sherlock murmured absentmindedly, freezing as she shifted against his chest.

"Yeah. She has her eyes... Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I've been meaning to talk to you about this for awhile... Mycroft told me a while back that you... Hade made me Hamish's guardian?"

"Of course I did. You're the only one I'd trust."

"What?" John asked, taken aback by his friend's response.

"You're the one I would trust most to take care of him and raise him," Sherlock answered simply. "You're my friend, John. One of the few I've got. And I know you'd take good care of him," he murmured, glancing down at his son's sleeping form and smiling as he felt the little boy's breath against his legs. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer me take you off?"

"What? No! No, I'm flattered, and if anything were to happen, I would be more than happy to take him in. I just wanted to make sure that wasn't some sort of mistake or something, that's all..."

"John. I've trusted you with my life. I most certainly trust you with his," Sherlock murmured, nodding down to Hamish's sleeping form. "There's no one I'd rather have take care of him should... Anything happen."

"Thank you, Sherlock," the doctor replied quietly. "That uhh... Mean's a lot," he stated truthfully.

"Of course... Uh, John?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind? Taking her, I mean? She's small, but she does become heavy after an hour and a half."

"Sure," John laughed, quickly hurrying over from where he had been sitting. "There we are," he murmured, gently taking Rose from his friend's arms and pressing her close to his chest. "There we are."

 

 

 

Molly returned shortly before dark and quickly took her sleeping baby from John's arms.

"She was wonderful," the doctor whispered truthfully, not wanting to wake Hamish, who was still sleeping soundly in Sherlock's lap.

"Good. Thank you two so much!"

After a few more thank you's and a quick kiss for all three of them, Molly grabbed her bags and hurried down the stairs, followed closely by John who helped by carrying the baby carriage.

Smiling after his friends, Sherlock slowly stood up and pulled his son's sleeping form into his arms, knowing that he would be thoroughly displeased tomorrow when he discovered he had not been able to say goodbye to the baby or Molly.

Chuckling slightly at the thought, the detective silently moved into his room and gently tucked Hamish's small body under the covers. "There you go," he murmured, using the back of knuckles to brush some of the little boy's unruly curls off of his forehead. "Goodnight, Hamish. I love you. Hope you had a good time." With warm eyes, Sherlock bent down and pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's cheek. "I suppose it wasn't too awful," he murmured against the little boy's skin, cradling his son's head in his hand.

"Hmm." Hamish sighed in sleep, subconsciously curling around the duvet and leaning into his father's comforting touch.

"Sleep well, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled lightly, pressing a quick kiss to his son's fingers. "We may have to do it again sometime," he murmured, gazing fondly at Hamish's peaceful form. "Goodnight..."


	35. A Quiet Day... Almost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This is just sort of a little fluffy cute chapter for the end of the week. Hope you all enjoy it and have a wonderful next few days! =) Thanks everyone! You all are great!
> 
> Oh! Also, want to apologize in advance for the errors! I've had so little time to write, let alone proof it! If you find any that are just awful (the spellcheck on this thing is truly horrendous, so who knows what crazy sentence you may find), please let me know and I'll change it! =)

When John awoke and slowly meandered down the stairs, still dressed in his pajamas, he found Sherlock, immaculately dressed as usual, sitting at the kitchen, crowded around his microscope as he scribbled notes onto several pieces of paper, face tensed in an expression the doctor had come to recognize as frustration.

"Morning," the detective mumbled, uttering a small grunt of annoyance as he tossed down the pen in his hand and turned back to the microscope.

"Morning," John yawned, crossing to the other side of the table and glancing tiredly at his friend's notes. "Did you even sleep at all?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, giving a small shake of his head.

"Three days?" John sighed, clearly exasperated.

"Three days and four hours, to be precise," the detective murmured, adjusting the magnification on his microscope.

"Sherlock, you need to sleep."

"Transport."

"Please," John groaned, rolling his eyes at the detective. "Can I help?"

"Coffee would be lovely, thank you," Sherlock smirked.

Glancing at the ceiling and holding in the choice words he had for his friend, John merely turned and started the machine running. "Hamish still asleep?"

"Yes. Long... Usually he's up by now," Sherlock murmured absentmindedly. Realizing that the little boy rarely slept in this late, and always one to assume the worst, the detective quickly fled from his chair and hurried down the hallway.

Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, Sherlock silently pushed open the door to his bedroom and hurried over to the bed. The detective smiled gently in relief as he saw Hamish, curled around one of the many pillows on the bed, his tiny body slowly moving up and down as he breathed.

Chuckling softly to himself, Sherlock moved forward and sat down on the bed, watching with soft eyes as Hamish shifted slightly in the bed, clearing sensing the movement.

"Hmm," the little boy hummed, stretching as he slowly awoke. "Da…" he started tiredly, voice raw with sleep.

"Shh, it's just me," Sherlock murmured, reaching forward and gently scratching his fingertips over his son's clothed back. "Sorry I woke you… You slept a long time, Hamish."

"Hmm? Lot?"

"Yes. A lot," the detective chuckled, pulling his hand away as Hamish rolled onto his back.

"Oh. 'Kay, Da'ey," the little boy sighed, tiredly scooting himself towards Sherlock and curling against the detective's thigh as he closed his eyes, yawning widely into the soft fabric of his father's trousers.

"Would you like to rest for a bit longer?" Sherlock chuckled, gazing down at his son with an endearing smile.

"Mmm," the little boy hummed in response, rolling over and reaching his arms up towards the detective. "Up, Daddy?" he whispered hopefully, eyes heavy with sleep.

"Of course." Smiling fondly at the little boy, Sherlock bent down and pulled Hamish's limp form into his arms, nestling him comfortably against his chest.

Taking a deep, content breath, Hamish snuggled closer to his father and reached up, draping his arms over the detective's shoulders as he tried to blink away the tiredness.

"Ta, Daddy," he sighed contently, absentmindedly grabbing a handful of curls resting at the nape of Sherlock's neck as they made their way out of the room.

"You're welcome," the detective chuckled, giving Hamish a gentle pat on the back as he rounded the corner and entered the kitchen.

"Hey, Hame," John whispered, giving the little boy a warm smile. "Morning, sleepyhead," he chuckled, hurrying over to give Hamish a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Hmm," Hamish giggled bashfully, burying his face against his father's neck. "Morn' John."

"Morning," the doctor murmured again, running a quick hand up the little boy's back before returning to the coffee.

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked gently, swaying back and forth as he waited for John.

The doctor couldn't help but chuckle to himself. It never ceased to amaze him how his flat mate's entire demeanor always changed the instant he was with Hamish; suddenly, Sherlock would be more gentle, more loving and more kind, not just to Hamish, but to all around him. The detective also seemed to be happier in general. John couldn't help but smile at the thought.

Upon hearing his friend chuckle to himself, Sherlock looked towards the doctor, automatically assessing his facial expressions and body language. "What is it?" he asked quietly, as Hamish was starting to fall asleep in his arms.

"What? Oh. Nothing, I was just thinking."

"About?"

"You," John replied instantly blushing when he saw the smirk on Sherlock's lips and realized how that had sounded. "No, no, not like that. I mean about how you've changed... How he's changed you."

"How do you mean?" the detective murmured, genuinely interested.

"I don't know... You've gone all... Soft," John replied, with a quick gesture of his hand. "You're much different when he's around. You become gentle, and more kind, not only to him, but those around you."

"Really?" Sherlock murmured, absentmindedly running his fingers through his son's soft curls. "I suppose I've never really thought about it."

"It's nice. I think everyone appreciates the nicer version of Sherlock Holmes," John chuckled, giving his friend a warm smile.

"Soft," the detective murmured, clearly lost in his own thoughts. "Yes... Yes, I suppose he has changed me, hasn't he?"

"Yes... It's not a bad thing, you know," John added softly, knowing Sherlock was contemplating what he'd just told him.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes. I... I just couldn't image being my "normal self", as I suppose you would call it, around him. I suppose it's because I feel he's too sweet and gentle to treat him with anything less, that's all," the detective murmured, cheeks flushing a light pink at his own words.

John paused, staring at Sherlock, almost frozen in his spot at his flat mate's rare show of verbal affection, and he couldn't help but smile to himself. "No need to feel embarrassed," he said quietly, gaze momentarily falling to Hamish's sleeping from in the detective's arms. "It's nice."

"Right. Yes. I... Suppose it is," Sherlock mumbled quietly, glancing down at his son. His lips quirked up into a small half-smile as felt the small boy's breath against his skin.

"Right. Good. Uhh, breakfast. Yes. Any for you?"

"No. Thank you."

"Of course," John chuckled to himself, turning around and pouring a mug of coffee both for himself and Sherlock. "Here we are," he mumbled to himself, quickly dropping two sugars into the detective's black beverage.

"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, managing to shift Hamish's limp body to his left side to take the mug from John. He chuckled quietly to himself as he realized how good he'd become at balancing and holding items with a single hand, and, careful not to jostle the little boy held up by his left arm, made his way to sitting room, followed closely by John.

"Any luck on the case?" the doctor asked, sitting in his own chair as he watched Sherlock move onto the couch.

"No," the detective sighed, suddenly agitated at being reminded about how frustrated he had been with reaching a dead end.

"Well... Maybe you just take a quiet day," John tried carefully, raising a hesitant eyebrow at his friend.

"A what?"

The doctor couldn't help but laugh out loud at the positively stunned look on his flat mate's face. "A quiet day," he chuckled. "You know, take a break, step back. We could just rest here, and spend a day with Hamish. Just sort of... Lounging around."

"Take a break?" Sherlock asked aloud, daring a quick glance at Hamish.

"Yes. Trust me, sometimes it helps."

"But—"

"Ah. It could even help Sherlock Holmes."

Poised to respond, Sherlock suddenly paused and closed his mouth, taking a pensive sip of his coffee as he absently stroked his fingertips up and down his son's back. "I suppose... Spending a calm day with Hamish... Wouldn't be too awful," he sighed dramatically, though he was already settling back into the couch and pulling Hamish close.

"Good." Smirking smugly to himself, John leaned back into his own chair and crossed his legs, grabbing the newspaper from the day before and scanning for anything he'd missed.

"So... What does one do on a quiet day?" Sherlock asked, glancing around the flat, as if the answer was resting with the walls.

"Anything, really. You can just lounge about, read a book... Let him sleep for as long as he wants," the doctor chuckled, nodding at Hamish, who was completely passed out against Sherlock.

"Interesting... But no working on the case?" the detective almost whined.

"No. Not allowed."

"Fine... Do you think he's getting sick? He rarely rests this long."

"Does he feel warm?"

Careful not to spill his coffee or jostle Hamish, Sherlock slowly transferred his mug to the hand that was currently holding the little boy around him, and then pressed he back of his fingers to his son's forehead. "No. He feels normal… Perhaps he hasn't been sleeping well the past few days duet to the fact that I've been working on a case."

"Could be. Anyways, he'll be fine sleeping a little while longer… Though we may regret it tonight when he can't sleep," John chuckled.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in response, focusing only moving his coffee back to his free hand.

"Right. Well, I'm starving so I'm just going to go get a quick bit to eat," the doctor sighed, setting the newspaper back down and taking another sip of his drink as he made his way into the kitchen.

"Yes, good. What? Oh, John, no there's—"

Sherlock's statement was cut off, though, by a frightened exclamation from John in the other room. "Fingers," he finished, chuckling to himself as he heard the doctor stomping back towards him.

"I thought," he spat, glaring at his flat mate as he re-entered the sitting room. "We had a greed that there were to be no more body parts… In the fridge!"

"Sorry," Sherlock smirked, gazing at the doctor over the rim of his coffee mug as he took a sip.

"Sorry? Sherlock, what if Hamish had found those?"

"He wouldn't have. He's not tall enough to reach the handle, and of course I knew they were there, and, as you just proved, if you were to get something for him, you would have seen them before he would. It's all fine. I need them to solve this case, and then I'll get rid of them," the detective promised with a noncommittal wave of his hand.

"Ugh. Just—Fine. Fine, just make sure they're tossed the moment you solve this bloody case."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured quietly, watching with a small smirk as the doctor turned on his heel and stormed back into the kitchen. "Ohh," he sighed softly, leaning further into the comfortable cushions of the couch as he allowed Hamish's sleeping form to slip down until the little boy was leaning against his side. "Could be fun, hmm?" he murmured absently, wrapping a delicate arm around his son's slumbering form and curling his slender fingers around Hamish's little ones, running the pad of his thumb over the soft skin.

With a tiny sigh, Hamish awoke at the movement, scrunching his eyes shut as he curled his fingers and toes, yawning widely.

"Hello," Sherlock chuckled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the little the scrunched-up hand held in his own.

"Mmm. He'o, Daddy," Hamish sighed, blinking slowly as he gazed around the flat, frowning slightly when he realized he was not in bed. "Mmm," he hummed confusedly, falling to his side and wrapping an arm around his father's.

Chuckling, Sherlock gently pulled Hamish onto his lap, which received a very disgruntled pout from the little boy. "Sorry, the detective chuckled, giving his son a quick kiss on the cheek in apology.

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled contently, nearly falling off his father's lap as he yawned again.

"Oh! There we are." Smiling fondly at his son's sweet little features, Sherlock carefully stood up and placed Hamish on the ground. "Would you like some breakfast?" he asked softly, wrapping his slender finger's around his son's and giving them a gentle squeeze.

"'Es 'ease," Hamish whispered, rubbing a tiny fist into his eyes.

"Excellent." Smiling down at his son, Sherlock slowly guided the little boy into the kitchen, keeping a gentle hand on his back.

"An apology for scaring the blood hell out of me would be greatly—Oh! Hey, Hame!" the doctor cried apologetically upon turning and seeing Hamish, staring up at him with an utterly confused expression, meandering into the kitchen.

"What, John?" the little boy yawned, cocking his head at the doctor.

"Oh, nothing. Sorry, bud, I thought you were still asleep."

"No, John. Hame up," Hamish giggled tiredly, giving John a bashful smile before pressing his face just above his father's knee.

Chuckling down at his son, the detective felt a strange fluttering in his stomach as he gazed down to see how small Hamish really was in comparison to his own form; the small boy really was still quite tiny, especially when standing next to Sherlock's incredibly tall and lean form.

Wrapping a protective hand around Hamish's middle, Sherlock bent down and pulled the little boy onto his lap, holding him close. "What would you like to eat?"

"Mmm," Hamish hummed thoughtfully, resting his head against the detective's shoulder as he contemplated. "P'cakes?" he asked hopefully, glancing at John.

"Sounds lovely," the doctor replied, giving his tiny flat mate a warm smile. "I will need to head out right after, though; Mrs. Hudson needs more milk by noon today and I promised her I'd go get some. So hopefully I can finish these fast—"

"I could make them," Sherlock said suddenly, glancing around the cluttered kitchen, just as John was about to pull out a skillet from one of the cabinets.

"What?" the doctor asked, freezing in his spot at the proposition.

"I could make them. The pancakes. So you could go out and get the milk—do keep up, John."

"Oh. Well… Do you even know how to cook? Or make anything other than tea and coffee?" John countered, expression frozen into one of utter disbelief.

"Of course, John," Sherlock scoffed, raising a disapproving eyebrow at his friend. "I have taken care of myself for quite some time, and that includes cooking, thank you." Brushing past John, who still looked both shocked and confused, and keeping Hamish settled firmly on his hip, the detective flew about the kitchen, pulling out various utensils and ingredients.

"Oh. Hamish, can you go to John for a moment, please?" Sherlock asked as he remembered the fingers (as well as other various body parts which had been well hidden) were still in the fridge.

"'Kay, Daddy." Smiling contently to himself, Hamish waited patiently until he was placed on the ground and then toddled over to John, wrapping a chubby hand around a few of the doctor's fingers.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock turned back to the fridge and quickly pushed aside a series of bloody body parts to grab the carton of milk. "Yes. Good," he stated contently, raising his eyebrows expectantly at John. "Well?"

"Well what?" the doctor asked, glancing around the kitchen.

"Go on. You can go get the milk," Sherlock sighed, giving his flat mate a dithering look. "And Hamish and I will make the pancakes," he added, squatting down and opening an arm towards the little boy.

"Go, John?" Hamish asked, giving a gentle tug at the doctor's fingers.

"Yes, of course!" John chuckled, giving the tiny boy a quick pat on the back.

Smiling to himself, and quickly giving John's leg a tight hug, Hamish turned and toddled over to his father, tripping over his own feet in the process, only to be caught by Sherlock's careful hands before he hit the ground.

"Oof! Soh, Daddy," he apologized quickly, haphazardly splaying his fingers over his father's lips as he regained his balance.

"It's alright, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled under his son's touch, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's chubby fingers before hoisting him onto his hip.

"You're sure you'll be okay? And you won't… I don't know. Burn the entire neighborhood down?" John asked skeptically, placing his hands on his hips as he glanced around the disheveled kitchen, gaze eventually falling back to the detective, as he raised an eyebrow.

"I promise. We'll be fine," Sherlock assured lightheartedly, returning the eyebrow raise.

Squinting for a moment at his flat mate and worrying his lip with his teeth, John eventually took a deep breath and gave a minuscule nod of his head. "Alright. Just… Careful? Please?"

"Always."

"Right. I'll be back in a few." Giving Hamish, was was preoccupied with delicately tracing the curve of his father's jawline a warm smile, the doctor hurried over and gave the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "Keep him safe for me, hmm?" he asked playfully, gently poking Hamish in the stomach.

"Hmm," the little boy giggled. "'Kay, John. Hame keep."

"Good. Thanks, little man."

With one last worried look towards Sherlock, and deciding he was not even going to bother with changing out of his pajamas, John pulled on a coat and hurried out the door, calling one last, "Be careful with him!" before shutting the door behind him.

"Finally!" Sherlock cried dramatically as soon as he heard the loud clink of the door shutting. "I thought he'd never leave!" he chuckled, gently tickling Hamish's stomach with his fingertips.

"Daddy!" the little boy laughed, turning around in the detective's arms and tucking his tiny limbs inward as he curled closer to Sherlock's chest, trying to escape the gentle tickling. "'Ease not, Daddy!"

"Okay, okay. No more tickling," the detective laughed, placing his son on the ground. "Okay, then. We need to go change, alright? Would you like to come?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Ease, Daddy," the little boy giggled, giving his father a sweet smile. Murmuring happily to himself, Hamish hurried out of the kitchen, toddling into Sherlock's room.

Following slowly with a fond gaze, the detective left the kitchen and made his way into the bedroom, chuckling to himself as he saw Hamish, bouncing up and down near the dresser.

"Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm. Hame."

"You first?"

"'Es, Daddy." Grinning, Hamish reached his arms up towards Sherlock in preparation.

Knowing the little boy was expecting him to tug off his shirt, the detective knelt down, lips quirking up as he saw Hamish scrunch his eyes shut as he pulled the tiny shirt off. "Okay. Pants."

"Hame do Daddy?" the little boy asked, laying down on his back and waited patiently as Sherlock gently tugged off his trousers, leaving him only in his nappy.

"You'd like to pick what I wear?" the detective asked, setting his son back on his feet.

"Mmm-hmm."

Smiling, Sherlock placed a tender hand to the side of his son's face, cradling the little boy's head in his hand. "That would be lovely, thank you."

"Good, Daddy." Giving his father a gentle pat on the shoulder, which received a deep chuckle from the detective, Hamish turned and pointed to the bottom drawer, which was promptly opened by Sherlock.

Leaning over the wood and nearly pulling out the drawer in the process, the little boy reached in and pulled out a pair of pajama bottoms, which happened to be the detective's favorite. "'Es, Daddy," he stated, giving the fabric a small smile and then passing it towards Sherlock.

"Ah. Thank you," the detective murmured, reaching down and taking the pajama bottoms from his son's tiny hands. "Would you like to pick a shirt now?" he asked, quickly shedding his own trousers, as well as his button-up and jacket, and pulling the pajamas on, which received much giggling from Hamish.

"No, Daddy," the little boy giggled once his father had finished.

"You don't want to pick a shirt?"

"No, Daddy. Up 'ease?"

"Of course." Mildly confused, yet interested as to what his son's reasoning was, Sherlock bent down, settling Hamish on his almost non-existent hip. "Why not?"

"Hmm? Oh. 'Etter," the little boy stated simply, pressing a hand to the detective's collarbone.

"What is?" Sherlock asked, not following. He watched with fond eyes as his son tried to think about how to phrase his thinking, smiling to himself at the likeness between him and the little boy.

"Daddy 'etter... Cud... Uhh... Cud'mul'wy," Hamish tried, sweet features scrunching together at the mispronunciation.

"Daddy better... Oh! Cuddly?"

Glad that Sherlock had understood, the little boy sat up in Sherlock's arms, grinning cheerfully at his father.

"'Es, Daddy! 'Etter cud... Mul'wy!"

Unable to help the happiness and love that fluttered across his abdomen, the detective wrapped his arms around Hamish's tiny body, giving him a tight hug. "More cuddly," he murmured into his son's curls, smiling fondly at the thought.

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed against Sherlock's bare skin. "'Es, Daddy. Hame like 'etter cud'mul'wy."

"Yes. As do I, Hamish," the detective murmured, pressing a quick kiss to his son's temple before meandering out of the room and into the kitchen.

"Right!" he said excitedly, placing Hamish on the counter and keeping a firm hand around his tiny middle. "Pancakes. Ready?"

"'Es, Daddy!" Throwing his arms up in the air and giving his father a wide grin, the little boy waited patiently swinging his legs back and forth and bumping the cabinets as he did so.

"Right," Sherlock sighed, giving a quick nod to the ingredients. "Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm."

 

 

When John returned home, the soft bell-like twinkle mixed with Sherlock's deep, baritone laugh could be heard floating down the stairs. Just relieved that the little boy sounded like he was fine, and glad neither the neighborhood nor the flat had been burned down.

Chuckling to himself, John hurried up the rest of the stairs, taking them two at a time, and rounded the corner, bags of shopping in his hands. The doctor froze, however as he entered the kitchen, mouth literally falling open at the sight in front of him.

It looked as if the entire bag of flour had been dumped about the room; on the floor, the counters, the table, the sink. Bits of egg and shell were scattered about the counter, and there were several globs of the pancake mix, now morel like a paste, strewn next to the stove. The entire kitchen was filthy—not even to mention his flat mates! Hamish's auburn curls were now white, coated with a thin layer of flour, as well as a few puffs of the white powder on his nose. Sherlock had managed to keep everything away from his face, yet his pajama trousers and bare chest were coated with everything from milk to flour to the pancake paste.

"Oh. Hello, John," Sherlock stated calmly from his seat at the table as he took a quick bite of a pancake, which, John noted, did not look too bad.

"Hello? That's all? The whole kitchen is a bloody mess, Sherlock! My goodness, look at you two!" he exclaimed fretfully, dropping the plastic bags to the floor as he stared around the filthy kitchen, knowing how long it would take to get everything all cleaned up again.

"What about the—Oh. Yes, that. We sort of had a little accident with the flour," Sherlock said slyly, giving Hamish a quick wink as the doctor moved behind him.

"Little?"

"You were the one who suggested a quiet day," the detective smirked quiet, taking a sip of the tea he had made as he reached forward, trying to help Hamish with a piece of the pancake.

"Fine. New rule. No more cooking by yourself on quiet days," John sighed, running a quick hand through his hair.

"Fine. Come along, Hamish. Let's go take a bath, hmm? Get us all cleaned up?"

"Bath tie?" the little boy asked hopefully, food suddenly forgotten.

"Yes. Oh, come here," Sherlock groaned comically as he pulled Hamish from the chair. "My, you're getting so big," he murmured, tenderly brushing some of the flour away from his son's nose.

"Hmm," the little boy giggled at the sensation, draping his arms around the detective's neck as he was carried to the bathroom.

Sherlock gently washed Hamish's hair, gently running his fingers over his son's scalp and through his silky curls in an attempt to get all the flour out. "Are you doing okay?" he asked softly, running a delicate finger down the little boy's nose as he washed the bubbles from Hamish's hair.

"Mmm-hmm, Daddy," the little boy hummed, preoccupied with playing with his bath toys.

"Good," Sherlock chuckled, getting a handful of soap and washing the powder from his son's tiny chest and arms.

 

 

After his bath, Hamish went back into the sitting room to spend time with John while Sherlock quickly took a shower of his own, cleaning himself of the messy ingredients.

After deciding the kitchen was a lost cause, and wanting to just spend the day relaxing and spending some quiet time with his flat mates, John joined Sherlock and Hamish in the sitting room, who were currently sitting on the ground, working on a puzzle about cars.

"How's the kitchen coming?" the detective asked cooly from where he was seated on the ground, as he guided Hamish's hand to drop the piece into its proper place.

"Piss off," the doctor mouthed, glaring at his flat mate.

In response, Sherlock's lips merely quirked up into a pleased smirk as he tapped an empty space on the puzzle.

 

 

The trio spent the next several hours just lounging around the flat, watching everything from Thomas the Tank Engine to Doctor Who, which had received a soft huff of a scoff from Sherlock, though he had agreed to sit down on the couch and watch the show, much to John's secret pleasure.

Eventually, upon glancing at the clock and realizing how late it had gotten, John hopped up from where he had been resting in his chair. "It's far past lunchtime. Does leftover Thai sound all right?" he asked, though the question was directed more at Hamish, rather than Sherlock, who he knew would probably not eat very much, if at all.

"'Es, John!" Hamish declared happily, bouncing up and down on where he was resting on top of Sherlock's chest.

"Oof! Hamish," the detective chuckled, placing a hand to his son's back in an effort to calm him.

"Oh! Soh, Daddy," the little boy apologized quickly, laying down and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, focus quickly returning to the telly.

Sherlock waited patiently on the couch, the little boy's head resting in the gap just under his shoulder, while he gently stroked his fingers over his son's auburn curls, twirling the silky hair between his thin fingers.

Though the two had been winding down by watching TV shows, Sherlock's mind had been wandering, and he was barely watching the telly.

Coming to a conclusion, the detective's fingers stopped and he let his hand slide down until it was resting on Hamish's back.

"Hamish, may I ask you a question?" he asked softly, pulling back slightly so he could gaze down at the little boy, who still had his arms draped around his neck.

"'Es, Daddy. What?" Hamish whispered, turning to give his father a puzzled look. Curious as to what the detective was wanting, the little boy slowly sat up on Sherlock's chest, splaying his fingers over the detective's bare chest.

"Good. Uhh..." Unsure of how he wanted to phrase his question, and knowing John would be returning soon with the heated leftovers, Sherlock sat up and gently let Hamish slide into his lap. "Hamish, I was wondering... If you were wanting a sibling?" he asked carefully, keeping a protective hand resting on his son's tiny back.

Very confused by his father's question, Hamish merely stared back at his father, mouth falling open slightly and fingers curling as he thought, trying to understand. "What is, Daddy?" he asked eventually, voice just a whisper as he gazed earnestly into Sherlock's striking grey eyes.

"A sibling?" A nod. "Oh. Well a sibling is... If you have a sibling, Hamish, it means you have either an older or younger brother or sister... Do you understand?"

Hamish thought for a moment, brows tugging together as he tried to understand. "No, Daddy, "he whispered eventually, gaze galling to the ground as he frowned, clearly embarrassed. "No Hame ub'st'nd. Soh, Daddy."

"What? Hamish, look at me," Sherlock whispered, cupping Hamish's hand in his own and leaning down so they were closer. "You have nothing to be embarrassed about. It's okay that you don't understand, all right? Please don't feel sorry for that, all right?"

Bottom lip sticking out slightly, Hamish gave a feeble nod of his head, leaning into his father's reassuring touch.

"Good. All right. A sibling... Oh. Well, Uncle Mycroft and I are siblings. Mycroft is my brother, and I am his brother. Therefore, we are siblings. Do you understand now?"

"Oh!" With a tiny gasp, Hamish suddenly understood, and grinned triumphantly at Sherlock, tapping excitedly on his collarbone. "'Es, Daddy. Unk My si... Uhh..."

"Sibling," Sherlock supplied gently.

"'Es! What, Daddy?"

"Hamish, I was wondering if you wanted a sibling? A little brother or sister... Like Uncle Mycroft and I," Sherlock whispered, anxiously studying his son's face for a reaction.

"What haps, Daddy?"

"Well... I'm not quite sure yet what exactly happens, Hamish. But I know that with others, a mummy and/or daddy will bring home either an older or younger sibling, often because they want to be able to share their love with more children, and then the child, or in this case you, would become a big brother or sister. They grow up and live together. The mummies and daddies share their love for their two children... I'm sorry. That was a bit complicated, and I'm not sure how much sense it made."

Sherlock watched carefully as Hamish's eyes swept across the floor and then back again, clearly trying to make sense of what his father had just told him. The detective started to panic as he noticed his son's bottom lip start to quiver.

"Hamish? Hamish, what's wrong? Have I said something to upset you?" Sherlock asked frantically, running his fingers through the little boy's curls, urging him to look up at him. "Hamish, please look at me. What's wrong, love?"

Sniffling, and mouth drawing down into a frown, Hamish looked up, his watery, deep green eyes staring sadly into the detective's steel-grey ones. "So," he started, voice breaking with the tears threatening to spill over. "So, Daddy... Non 'ove... Daddy want 'nother Hame?" he asked, tiny chest heaving with saddened breaths.

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed softly, brows knitting together and a pained expression tensing his features at his son's assumption. "Hamish, no it's not that, I—"

"No, Daddy!" Hamish gasped suddenly, voice wavering with sadness. Tears quickly spilling over and bottom lip quivering, the little boy pressed himself closer to Sherlock, shoving his face into the detective's shoulder as he started to cry. "Daddy non 'ove Hame!" he sobbed, wrapping his arms around his father's shoulder, as if to ensure he stayed with him. "Da—daddy n—non want?"

"No, no, no, Hamish," Sherlock whispered urgently, feeling a pang of utter sorrow dash through his chest. "Oh, Hamish I'm so sorry," he gasped, placing a comforting hand on his son's head and cradling him close. "Hamish I love you more than you can possibly imagine and no one—no one—could ever possibly come close to replacing you. There will never be anyone else like you, Hamish. You are special. You are individual. And I love you. Just you. I could never possibly..." Frowning sadly as he felt the little boy snuffle against his chest, Sherlock began to rock and back and forth on the couch, simultaneously rubbing soothing circles up and down his son's back as he stroked his fingers through the little boy's auburn curls. "Please don't cry, Hamish. I promise, I am not replacing you... I couldn't. You're the only Hamish I'm ever going to have, I promise. You're my son... And... No one else could ever come close to finding a place in my heart like you have. You're so sweet, love. And I'm sorry. Please, look at me, Hamish."

Sniffling violently, and with tears still streaming down his chubby cheeks, Hamish hesitantly pulled away, though he kept his little arms wrapped firmly around his father's neck, grip tightening ever so slightly. "S—so... Daddy want? An', an'." A sniffle. "'Ove?"

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed sadly, feeling the familiar burn of his own tears burning in the back of his eyes and nose as he stared at his son's tear-stained cheeks. "I love you more than... Than anything, Hamish. And I will always want you here with me. "I love you more than I could have ever thought I was capable of. I'm so sorry I made you cry... I was just... I was only worried that you had been wanting a sibling, Hamish. But it was not because I don't want or love you anymore. Do you understand?" he asked, wanting to make sure the little boy understood his love for him.

Impossibly sea-green eyes growing wide as he stared at his father, Hamish's sobs slowly calmed to just sniffles. "Ah'cause Hame 'ove, Daddy," he sniffled mournfully.

"I know you do, Hamish. I know you do," Sherlock murmured sadly, the horrible feeling of guilt building in his chest as he cradled Hamish's head in the palm of his hand and started to clear away the tears which were slowly beginning to dissipate. "Come here," he whispered, moving his arms and opening them around his son's tiny, shaking form.

Eager for the comfort and physical contact of his father, Hamish rushed forward, falling into Sherlock's open arms and pressed himself as close to the detective as he could possibly get.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed gently, running a comforting hand up and down Hamish's bare back as he continued to rock back and forth. "Shh... See? It's all right... No siblings. Just us... I'm sorry, love. I didn't... Shh... I've got you here."

"Hmm," Hamish half-sighed, half-whimpered into his father's neck. "Not more, Daddy," he whispered sadly against Sherlock's skin. Bottom lip still quivering, the little boy reached down and pressed the palm of his hand to Sherlock's chest. "For Hame…"

Truly shocked once again the by the emotional depth and understanding Hamish had, the detective reached down and pressed his hand over Hamish's. "You're right. I only have room for you in my heart, Hamish. You're my son... My baby... All right? Shh. You're okay. I'm here. Don't worry."

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, wiping his head back and forth against Sherlock's skin and snuggling closer as he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

"'Ove, Daddy," he whispered once more, opening his eyes and blinking slowly up at his father.

"I love you, too, Hamish," the detective murmured, turning to the side to place an incredibly delicate kiss to his son's temple. "Are you all right?" he asked softly, guilty tears beginning to sting the back of his eyes as he rocked back and forth.

"'Es, Da'ey," Hamish whispered, closing his eyes as he nuzzled closer to Sherlock's neck, inadvertently brushing away the rest of the tears resting on his cheeks. "Hame 'etter, Daddy. So no sib at Hame?" he asked hopefully, taking a deep breath and tightening his grip around his father's neck.

"No, Hamish. Not at all. It'll just be us. With our little family of three, hmm?" Sherlock hummed, hoping to lift his son's spirits.

"Good, Daddy," Hamish nodded, absentmindedly clutching a fistful of his father's curls in his chubby fingers. "Stay lit, Daddy?"

"Of course we can stay here for a little while longer... We can stay here as long as you like." Lips turning up ever so slightly into a relieved smile, Sherlock bent his head until his cheek was resting atop his son's head. "As long as you need."

Smiling to himself, and allowing a few of his own tears to slip free, John quickly turned from where he had been listening to the conversation, pressing the heel of his palm under his eyes to wipe away the evidence of how moved he'd been by what Sherlock had said for Hamish. Remembering that he was supposed to be making lunch, the doctor turned and opened the fridge, taking out the leftovers and set about getting it ready, deciding to take his time.

John smiled to himself as he decided not to tell Sherlock he'd heard everything, opting to keep it between father and son.

Still rocking Hamish back and forth and enjoying the feel of his son's smooth skin against the back of his neck, Sherlock continued to hold Hamish close, knowing that John would be giving them as much time as they needed.

Smiling to himself, the detective pressed another gentle kiss to the top of Hamish's head. "As long as you need."


	36. Fixing An Ouch

"What doing, Daddy?" Hamish cheerfully from where he was seated in between John and Sherlock in the cab, absentmindedly twirling the sleeve of his father's coat between his tiny fingers.

"We're going shopping, Hamish," the detective replied quietly, gazing out the window as he wrapped an arm around his son's middle and gently patted Hamish's side.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Chewing slightly on his bottom lip, the little boy leaned to his side, resting his weight against Sherlock's arm, yawning widely, as he had missed his nap for that day. "John go?" he asked, wide eyes staring up at Sherlock from where he w as resting.

"Yes. John's going, too," the detective chuckled, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb up and down the back of his son's hand as he shared a quick smile with the doctor, who was sitting just to the other side of Hamish.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy. What shop?"

"Not much," John lied, gently ruffling Hamish's curls. They were actually going shopping for gifts for the little boy's birthday, which was coming up in a few weeks. "We just need to get some food and some things for the case Daddy's working on."

"Oh," the little boy yawned, nestling further against Sherlock's arm. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Hame now nap?" he asked quietly, eyes already slipping shut.

"Of course," Sherlock chuckled deeply, moving his hand to cradle his son's and urge him downward.

Half-leaning, half-falling down, Hamish sighed softly to himself as he rested his head on his father's thigh, curling his fingers around the soft fabric of the detective's trousers. "Ta, Daddy," he whispered, yawning into Sherlock's leg.

"You're welcome," the detective murmured fondly, twirling a lock of Hamish's auburn curls between his fingers.

Murmuring tiredly to himself, the little boy fell asleep, hand subconsciously curling and uncurling around his father's trousers as he slept.

Sharing a quick smile with his flat mate, Sherlock waited patiently throughout the cab ride, absently playing with some of his son's silky curls.

Wanting to allow Hamish some sort of a nap for the day (and knowing the little boy would be extremely grumpy without it), Sherlock merely slipped out of the cab and curled his arm under his son's bottom, allowing the little boy's head to rest on his shoulder as he napped.

"Ready?" he asked quietly, gazing at John, who had paid the cabbie and hurried over to his side.

"Yep!" the doctor declared happily, giving his friend a sympathetic smile as he nodded at Hamish. "Sleepy, hmm? Poor little guy… Uhh, how about you take him and walk around until he wakes up and I'll go get some gifts. Anything in particular you'd like me to get him for you?"

"Oh, uhh… No thank you, John," the detective thanked.

"Right. Meet back in the galley in… An hour?"

"Yes. Good. See you then." With a small nod of his head and a smile, Sherlock turned and hurried into the mall while John went in the other direction, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Moving carefully so as not to jostle Hamish too much, Sherlock entered the mall, glancing around the large entrance as he debated where he wanted to go. Deciding he would take Hamish to the children's play area when he awoke, the detective turned to his right, heading towards the escalator that led up.

Arms growing tired from the dead weight of the little boy's sleeping form in his arms, Sherlock carefully shifted Hamish to his other side, settling him into the gentle dip of his waist.

"He's beautiful," came the soft voice of a woman. Turning around at the sound, the detective found an older woman, approximately 55 years of age, gazing wistfully at his son's sleeping form.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you," Sherlock answered politely, giving the woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Hudson, a warm smile.

"Just a darling. How old is he?"

"Nearly two."

"Oh," she sighed happily, turning her gaze to Sherlock and giving him a warm smile. "So sweet. He looks just like you. It's clear he's your son," she murmured, giving the detective a gentle pat on the back.

Poised for a response, Sherlock stopped suddenly at the woman's last comment. "Yes," he murmured eventually, a bittersweet pang shooting through his chest. "Thank you."

"Of course, dear." Giving the detective one last smile, the older woman hurried ahead and left the elevator, making her way up to the next floor.

Twitching his lips into a small, fond smile, Sherlock placed his lips to Hamish's temple, allowing them to linger as he gave the little boy a tender kiss, smiling against the soft skin.

 

 

 

"Hamish… Hamish?" Sherlock asked delicately, gently shaking the little boy awake from where he was resting on his lap, as they were seated at a bench by the children's playground. "Can you wake up for me?"

"Mmm. Oh. Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Where is?" Hamish asked quietly, rubbing his cheek up and down Sherlock's arm. The little boy paused, however, a wide grin spreading across his face as he stared up at his father with bright eyes, precious features lighting up with his accomplishment.

"Hamish, wha—Oh!" the detective exclaimed quietly upon realizing why his son was looking up at him with a tiny grin. "Excellent job!" he praised, leaning forward and clutching Hamish close in a tight hug.

"Daddy!" the little boy giggled into Sherlock's chest, wrapping his arms (as well he could) around his father's neck, returning the hug.

"Oh, you're so clever," the detective murmured into his son's silky hair, quickly running his fingers over the little boy's back. "That was an excellent job using your new word, Hamish," he praised again, leaning back and scooting Hamish further back on his thighs so he could gaze at him properly.

"Hmm," the little boy giggled contently, his hands sliding to rest against Sherlock's jaw and exposed collarbone. "Good, Daddy," he sighed, tugging absently at the collar of the detective's shirt as he started to gaze around his surroundings. "Daddy, where is?"

"We're at the mall, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, turning the tiny boy around on his lap so Hamish could have a clear view of the play yard. "See? We're waiting here while John does the shopping. Would you like to go over and play?"

Bouncing cheerfully in his father's arms, Hamish squirmed, quickly sliding from the detective's lap and onto the floor. "Go, Daddy?" he asked, tugging gently at Sherlock's trousers.

"Yes, of course you can," the detective chuckled, standing from the bench and giving his son a reassuring pat on the back. "Go on. I'll be here."

"Oh. No Daddy go?" Hamish asked quietly, giving his father a worried look.

"Would you like me to go?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. No Hame can," the little boy stated cheerfully, pointing to some of the larger toy sets.

"Ah. I see," Sherlock chuckled, bending down and offering his hand to his son. "Come on, then."

"Mmm." Grinning happily to himself, and deep green eyes scanning his new surroundings with a gaze uncannily like his father's, Hamish reached up, wrapping his little fingers around Sherlock's much larger ones as he huddled closer to the detective's leg.

"What's wrong, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, giving his son's tiny hand a gentle squeeze. "It's not much different from the park."

"Lots," Hamish answered, gazing warily at a large group of particularly loud teenagers as they crowded by.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, staring after the group with almost the exact same expression as his son. He turned back to the little boy, and couldn't help but laugh out loud as he saw Hamish's face. "You're right. There are a lot of people," he chuckled lightly, crouching down until he was almost face-to-face with the little boy. "But I'll stay with you the whole time, okay? It'll be alright."

"Hmm? Oh," Hamish gasped quietly, too immersed in his observations to notice that his father had knelt down beside him. "What doing, Daddy?" he asked, cocking his head to his side as his wide, sea-green eyes scanned over the detective's face.

"Would you like me to carry you over there?" Sherlock asked gently in response, nodding towards the large aisle crowded with people.

"'Es, 'ease," Hamish replied, giving an earnest nod of his head as he took a step forward and wrapped his little arms around the detective's neck, grabbing a fistful of his father's curls as he did so.

Lips quirking at the tickling feeling of Hamish's hands in his hair, Sherlock stood, pulling the little boy up with him and turned, maneuvering his way through the large crowds of people, diaper bag swung over his shoulder.

"Ah. Here we are," he sighed softly, letting the bag slip to the floor as the glanced around the playground, unable to turn his nose up in distaste at the thought of how many germs must be lurking on the sets. He pushed the thought aside, however, as he heard Hamish start to giggle and bounce in his arms. "Alright, alright," he laughed, placing the little boy on the ground and smiling in delight at the happiness that was evident on his son's sweet features. "Where to first?"

"Uhh… 'Es?" Hamish asked, pointing to a small climbing set with a slide on the end.

"Sounds lovely." Slowly following after his son and wading through the young children running and screaming about, Sherlock watched as Hamish toddled up to the set and, using the handrail rope, pulled himself up the first step, grinning happily to himself. "Got it?" the detective asked, hurrying forward and placing a hand to his son's back as the little boy had started to fall backward.

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, hurrying up the next two steps.

Chuckling to himself, Sherlock pulled is hand away once Hamish was successfully at the "top," though the entire set only came up to about his waist, and pulled out his phone.

"Daddy?" the little boy asked worriedly, eyes scanning from left to right as he tried to figure out what to do.

"That's alright, Hamish. You're doing beautifully," Sherlock praised, moving to other side of the set, where the slide let out, keeping his camera positioned on his son. "Just come over here and slide down. I'm just at the bottom, see? Just like at the park."

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief. "'Kay, Daddy." The sweet grin gracing his tiny lips once again, Hamish turned around, and squatted down at the entrance to the slide. "'Kay, Daddy?" he called down loudly, even though the detective was just a few feet away.

"I'm ready," Sherlock chuckled, giving Hamish a reassuring smile.

"'Kay." With a deep breath, as if to steady himself, the little boy sat down, and with one last quick to his father, shoved himself down, squealing as he slid down the tiny slide.

"Oh! Mwah!" Sherlock cried, simultaneously tucking his phone back into his pocket as he scooped Hamish into his arms, laughing along with his son as he pressed a stream of ticklish kisses to the little boy's cheeks and neck. "Got you!" he laughed, ignoring all the women who were murmuring in approval around him.

"No, Daddy," Hamish giggled, tucking his head into the collar of the detective's coat to stifle his laughing. "Daddy."

"Where next?" Sherlock murmured cheerfully, pressing one last, playful kiss to the tip of the little boy's nose.

"You, Daddy."

"I get to pick? Hmm," the detective hummed, turning to look around the room as he gave Hamish a sly glance out of the corner of his eye, which sent the little boy into a quiet fit of giggles. "That one?"

"'Es!" Hamish cried, giving Sherlock a kiss on the cheek in approval.

"Excellent," the detective murmured back, grinning softly at his son.

 

 

 

When, fifteen minutes after the time they'd agreed to meet at the front, John was standing at the entrance alone, the doctor gave a small huff of disapproval, rolling his eyes as he silently scolded himself, knowing that he shouldn't have expected Sherlock to remember.

Mumbling unhappily to himself, and with a ridiculous amount of bags in his hands and hanging from his forearms, John stomped back into the mall and hurried to the children's section, suspecting Hamish was probably playing there.

Trying not to fall backwards as he rode the escalator to the children's floor, John quickly exited, striding towards the playing area. The doctor stopped in his tracks however, a small smile spreading over his lips as he saw Sherlock make his way towards him… With Hamish seated cheerfully atop his shoulders, playing contently with the detective's raven curls as he talked to himself.

"Well, hello!" the doctor called, smirking at his flat mate. "You're up high, Hame!" he called, reaching an arm up to take the little boy's hand in his own.

"'Es, John! He'o!" Hamish yelled down, causing his father to wince and chuckle at the same time.

"Not so loud," he chuckled, reaching up to pull the little boy from his shoulders and place him on the ground.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed contently, hurrying forward to wrap his arms around John's leg. "He'o, John," he said into the fabric, staring up at the doctor with cheerful eyes.

"Hey there, little man," the doctor chuckled, gently ruffling the little boy's hair as he grinned down at him.

"He'o. Go now?"

"Oh. Well… Daddy still has to shop… I suppose I could take you home?" the doctor suggested, glancing at Sherlock for approval.

"Yes. That's all right with me. I shouldn't be too long. Hamish? You're going to go home with John, okay? I'll be home in a little while."

"'Kay, Daddy… Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?" the detective asked, keeling on the ground to see the little boy, who was still clutching a fistful of John's trousers in his small fist.

"B'bye cuddle?"

Eyes softening as he gazed at his son, Sherlock bent forward, wrapping his arms around Hamish's tiny body and pulling him into a tight hug, tucking his much smaller body into his arms. "Of course. You can always have a goodbye cuddle, Hamish. Mmm," he hummed, pressing his son closer for a few more moments before releasing him. "Better?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Es, Daddy. Hame 'etter."

"Good," Sherlock murmured, giving his son a quick wink and running his thumb over the bottom of Hamish's chin before straightening. "Be back a little while, yes?"

"'Es. 'Kay, Daddy," the little boy said cheerfully, pressing back against John's leg as he smiled up at the detective. "B'bye, Daddy. Fun?"

"I'm most certainly going to try," Sherlock chuckled, smiling down at his son. "Bye, you two. Call me if you need anything."

"Yeah, yeah," John scoffed, giving a submissive wave of his hand. "We'll be fine. Right?"

"'Es!" Hamish replied, giving his father a reassuring smile.

"Of course. Bye, then.

"B'bye, Daddy," the little boy whispered, giving his father's leaving form a tiny wave with his little fingers.

"Good man," John murmured, smiling down at his little flat mate. "Ready?"

"'Kay! Go home?"

"Yep. Let's go!"

 

 

 

Sherlock returned to the flat nearly forty-five minutes later, and hurriedly stashed his bags in Mrs. Hudson's flats, along with John's (as the three of them were going to be wrapping the presents in the next few days), and then hurried up into the flat. The detective paused in the doorway as he saw John, lying on the ground, propped up on one elbow, playing toy cars with Hamish, grinning at the little boy as he slid the car across the floor.

Unable to help himself, Sherlock pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures, finding the scene in front of him to be strangely precious. Though he had not outright said it, the detective had John had a mutual agreement that both were parents to Hamish… Sherlock had made the doctor Hamish's guardian after all.

Smiling to himself and tucking his phone back into his pocket, the detective shuffled slightly in his spot and tugged off his coat. "Hello," he greeted, giving John a knowing smile as the doctor's head whipped around towards him.

"Daddy!" Hamish gasped happily. Toys quickly forgotten, the little boy jumped up and toddled over to his father, wrapping his little arms around Sherlock's leg. "Back, Daddy!"

"Well of course I'm back," the detective chuckled, pulling Hamish into a tight hug. "Mmm!" he laughed, pressing a soft kiss to his son's cheek. "What were you and John doing, hmm?"

"Cars!" Hamish declared, placing both of his hands to either side of his father's face.

"Ah, I see," Sherlock chuckled, reaching up and wrapping his long fingers around his son's tiny hand. "Did you two have a good time?" he asked, pressing a quick kiss to Hamish's palm.

"Mmm-hmm. 'Es, Daddy! John play at Hame an' play cars."

"Very good! Oh! Have you told John your new word yet, Hamish?" Sherlock asked excitedly, shifting the little boy to his hip.

"Oh. No, Daddy... John!"

"Yeah, little man?" the doctor chuckled, smiling at his little flat mate's excitement.

"Hame new!"

"Yeah? What new word did you learn?" John asked, moving closer.

"Where!" Hamish declared gleefully, tucking his head just under Sherlock's jaw as he giggled.

"Wow! Good job, Hame!" John praised, sharing a quick smile with his flat mate before coming over and giving Hamish a quick kiss on the cheek.

"John?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"Eat?" Hamish asked, suddenly frowning down at his stomach.

"Oh! Yeah that's right, we ordered takeaway, didn't we? Sorry bud, I totally forgot! I'll go run out and get it now, hmm?"

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy responded, nodding his head at the doctor.

"Right," John chuckled. "Be right back," he informed his flat mates, quickly tugging on his coat and heading down the stairs.

"Daddy play at Hame at cars?" Hamish asked softly, gazing up at his father with wide eyes.

"You'd like me to play with you, too?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," the little boy murmured, replacing his head under Sherlcok's jaw.

"That would be lovely, Hamish," the detective chuckled, moving over to the toys and plopping down on the ground. "Thank you for asking."

"'Es, Daddy. 'Kay." Clearing in toy-mode, Hamish silently slid out of Sherlock's lap and hurried over to his pile of cars. "Daddy," he stated plainly, holding the car in front of his father.

"This one's mine?"

"Mmm-hmm." Clearly engrossed in what he was doing, and chewing absentmindedly on his bottom lip, the little boy returned to the pile, and pulled out a green one (Hamish's current favorite color... It changed often.) "Hame," he whispered, drawing his brows together as he carefully placed the car between his legs.

"Yours," Sherlock translated silently, watching with mild wonder and amazement as his son sorted through the rather large pile of cars, handing the ones he obviously didn't want to the detective.

"Ah. Thank you," Sherlock thanked as the last of the cars were dolled out. He couldn't help but smile as he glanced between the two stacks of cars; all of his were older model cars with dull colors, while Hamish's pile consisted of vibrant colored vehicles, which look decidedly better than the ones in his pile.

"'Kay, Daddy. Good?" Hamish sighed, quickly straightening all of his cars out before giving his father a triumphant smile.

"That's excellent, Hamish. Now what?"

"Oh! Now..." Sherlock tried to follow along with instructions his son was clearly trying to tell him, though he could only make out a few words here and there as a lot of the explanation was mostly words Hamish could not fully pronounce yet.

"Good, Daddy?" the little boy asked eventually, clearly done with his lengthy instructions.

"Yes, I think so," Sherlock chuckled, lying on his side in the position John had taken earlier.

Hamish was practically beaming. "Good, Daddy!" he declared, giving the detective a wide grin. "Oh!" Having clearly forgotten something of importance, the little boy pushed himself up from his position on the floor, and hurried into the kitchen.

Sherlock chuckled after the little boy as he saw his son attempting to tug his shirt off as he ran. "Hamish, don't run and do that," he chuckled. "You might—" Suddenly, as if on cue, there came a loud crash, followed by a moment of silence which Sherlock recognized all too well.

"Hamish?" he called worriedly, instantly fleeing to the kitchen to find the little boy, curled up into a ball on the floor, clutching his arm. "Oh, Hamish," he sighed sadly, pulling the little boy's crumpled form into his arms, just as the sobs began.

"Shh," he soothed, gently rocking back and forth. "It's all right. You're okay, hmm? You just fell over..."

"No, Daddy," Hamish sobbed, curling his tiny form inward so it appeared even smaller and then pressing himself as close to Sherlock as he could. "Ouch, Daddy," he cried, wincing in pain as he shifted.

Panic starting to creep into his veins, Sherlock instantly pulled back, and gasped silently upon realizing there was blood on his exposed arm.

Not entirely sure of what to do and too panicked to think to call John, the detective hurried over to the sink and sat Hamish on the counter, though the little boy refused to let go of his shirt. "Hamish, I need to take a look at your arm, all right? Yes? Can you let me do that?" he asked gently, placing a comforting hand to the back of his son's head.

"No, Daddy," Hamish cried sadly, little face scrunching together in pain. "Ouch."

"I know. I know it hurts... But I'm going to try to make it all better, okay? But I can't do that if I can't see what hurts, right?" he asked, amazed at how calm he sounded, compared to what he was actually feeling on the inside.

"'Kay, Daddy." Sniffling madly, and attempting to stop the stream of tears streaming down his face, Hamish reluctantly released his grip around Sherlock's collar and pulled back.

"There's my good boy," the detective whispered, giving his son a loving kiss on the nose. Returning to the matter at hand, Sherlock quickly located where all the blood had come from, just above Hamish's right elbow. "I'm going to need to lift your arm a little," he murmured, giving Hamish a reassuring smile. "I'm not going to hurt it."

The detective sighed in relief as he saw that the injury looked much worse than it actually was. Hamish had scraped a little bit of the skin back when he fell. Though the gash was not deep it was long, hence all of the blood. Still not entirely sure how to proceed, Sherlock quickly tugged off Hamish's shirt, which was now stained with blood, and found a washcloth. "Right," he whispered, placing a reassuring hand to his son's back as he made to place the cool fabric against his arm. "This may sting a little, all right?" he asked, looking for reassurance.

With a tiny sniffle and a nod of his head, Hamish whispered an incredibly sad, "'Kay, Daddy."

"Very good job, Hamish." Wincing slightly himself, Sherlock carefully pressed the flannel to Hamish's arm, feeling a pang of guilt and sadness constrict in his chest as he saw his son's face scrunch up in discomfort and heard the tiny moan that escaped his lips. "I'm sorry," he whispered, quickly dabbing up the blood that had started to dry on Hamish's little arm.

"'Kay, Daddy," the small boy sniffled badly. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish, what is it?"

"Daddy 'ease..." A sniffle. "D-daddy 'ease hum at Hame?" Hamish asked feebly, eyes falling to the ground, as if embarrassed.

"Of course!" Sherlock cried instantly, giving his son a warm smile. "I'd love to."

Upon hearing his father's gentle and comforting baritone voice, Hamish calmed down considerably and allowed the detective to finish cleaning his cut with little to no disagreement.

"You are doing so well," Sherlock praised, quickly dropping the stained cloth into the sink. "You're such a brave boy," he whispered, tenderly pulling the little boy into his arms. "I'm very proud of you... Now, all we need is a plaster, and then you'll be right as rain!" he added, hoping to cheer up Hamish, who looked miserable.

"'Kay, Daddy..."

After rummaging around the cabinets, Sherlock eventually found the plasters and then sat down at the kitchen table, opting to keep Hamish on his lap. "Right," he mumbled to himself, quickly tearing off the packaging of the plaster, which, ironically enough, was covered in race cars. "Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Good." Careful not to upset the skin too much, Sherlock pulled Hamish's arm close to his face and, plaster ready, covered the cut with the padding. "Oh," he sighed, almost in relief. "Hamish, you did a very good job. That was very brave of yo—"

"No done, Daddy," the little boy inputted quietly, frowning slightly at the cars on his arm.

"What's not done, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, turning the little boy on his lap so they were facing each other.

"Kiss, "Hamish stated plainly, holding his arm up to the detective's face. "Make go b'bye," he whispered.

"Oh. Of course. My apologies." Giving his son a loving smile, and moving with incredibly tender hands, Sherlock pulled his son's arm to his lips, pressing a kiss to the plaster, careful not to press too hard so as not to hurt Hamish further. "All gone," he whispered.

"Mmm. Ta, Daddy," the little boy whispered, resting his head against Sherlock's chest as he closed his eyes, cradling his arm close.

"You did a very good job... You are a very brave, big boy," the detective praised, absentmindedly rocking back and forth in the chair. "Come on. I do believe that deserves an award," he said softly, pressing a tender kiss to the top of his son's curls. "How about a bath and then some ice cream before dinner, hmm?" he suggested. Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he felt Hamish relax in his arms. "Mmm-hmm. Good Daddy."

"I agree. Come on then."

Smiling fondly at his son, and minding his injured arm, Sherlock stood up from the table and, keeping Hamish close, hurried into the bathroom and started the water running, pressing another quick kiss to the cars plaster.


	37. Daddy's Sick

"John," Sherlock groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes as he tossed himself into the corner of the couch. "I'm sick!"

"Oh please," the doctor sighed, walking in from the kitchen with Hamish on his hip and a sippy cup full of juice in his other hand. "You are not really sick. You just have a little sinus infection and some nausea."

"Insufferable," Sherlock muttered under his breath, snatching a blanket that was resting on the back of the sofa and throwing it around his lean form as he curled further into the corner.

"John?" Hamish asked quietly, tugging at the collar of the doctor's jumper as he stared worriedly after his father's curled up form.

"Yeah, Hame?"

"Daddy 'kay, John?" the little boy whispered, gazing sadly at his father.

"Oh yeah," the doctor chuckled, sitting down in his chair and handing Hamish his cup. "Daddy's fine, he's just a drama queen," he added, whispering playfully into the little boy's ear.

"Oh," Hamish giggled, taking the cup and sliding off the doctor's lap. "Hame go see?" he asked, gently tapping on John's knee.

"Of course. Besides," the doctor whispered, lowering down to whisper loudly in Hamish's ear. "I think he could use a little help and support, hmm? Why don't you go give him a hug, see if you can help him feel better, yeah?"

"Oh," the little boy murmured seriously, nodding his head as he stared at his father's pathetic form with sad, worried eyes. "'Kay, John. Hame help." Clutching his sippy cup close to his tiny chest, Hamish toddled over to Sherlock's form, and paused as he reached the sofa. "Daddy?" he asked quietly, releasing his grip on the cup to gently tap the detective on the back.

"Hmm? Yes Hamish?" Sherlock mumbled groggily, curling his head backward to gaze at his son.

"Hmm." Humming frustratedly to himself, and pressing his lips together, Hamish dropped the cup onto the floor and clutched two fistfuls of his father's trousers, hoisting himself onto the couch with a tiny grunt. "Uh," he huffed, haphazardly falling over Sherlock's long legs as he shifted on the sofa.

Blinking groggily, the detective turned, careful not to move his legs and placed a hand on his son's tiny arm.

"He'o Daddy," Hamish whispered, deep green eyes quickly scanning over his father's pale face. "Daddy have ouch?"

Despite his sickness, Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at his son. "Yeah. A little. I'm just sick," he explained gently, running a reassuring thumb up and down the small boy's arm.

"Oh. Ouch?"

"Well… Sort of. But I'm all right. Promise," he added, giving a feeble wink.

"Mmm. 'Kay," Hamish hummed skeptically, giving Sherlock a tiny, reassuring smile. With a quiet breath, the little boy crawled forward, and slotted himself between his father's curled up form and the back of the couch. "Mmm," he hummed, wrapping his arms around the detective's neck and giving them a tight squeeze. "Hame help Daddy 'ettter," he murmured into Sherlock's neck, leaning up to kiss place a tender kiss to the underside of his father's jaw. "'Kay, Daddy?"

"Okay," Sherlock whispered, smiling in spite of himself at the warmth that was spreading through his cheeks from where Hamish had kissed. "Thank you."

"'Etter yet, Daddy?" the little boy asked hopefully, pulling away from Sherlock's neck to stare up at him with hopeful eyes.

"No, not yet," the detective chuckled, lovingly ruffling his son's curly hair.

"Oh," Hamish frowned. Squeezing his eyes together, the little boy tucked his head back under Sherlock's jaw and squeezed his arms again. "'Etter?"

Pausing to stare down at his son with soft eyes, the detective couldn't help but smile at the earnest, hopeful twinkle in Hamish's impossibly green eyes. "Yes," he chuckled quietly, giving the little boy a reassuring smile. "I'm much better now, Hamish. Thank you."

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief. "Good, Daddy. Help?"

"Very much so."

"Good, John?" Hamish called, voice muffled by the fabric of his father's shirt.

"Very good job, Hame," the doctor replied, smiling fondly at his two flat mates.

Sniffling and then frowning slightly at the twinge in his head upon doing so, Sherlock snuggled further into the couch, pulling the blanket around both their bodies, huddled so closely together.

"Oh!" the detective cried softly and suddenly. "John?" he asked, turning around the glance at the doctor. "Will I get him sick?" he asked earnestly, making a gesture towards Hamish, who had closed his eyes and was resting comfortably between him and the couch.

"Oh. No, he should be all right," John reassured.

Needless to say, three hours later, Sherlock felt a gentle tugging on the hem of his robe. Turning around from where he had been standing in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, the detective found Hamish, looking utterly miserable, wiping an arm across his nose.

"Hamish? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked gently, kneeling down on the ground with cup of tea in hand.

"Ew, Daddy," Hamish replied sadly, voice sounding raw and strained.

"Oh," the detective sighed, eyes quickly scanning over his son's tiny face. "Are you sick, Hamish?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish sniffled, sticking his bottom lip out and as he fell forward, placing his head against his father's shoulder with a tiny moan.

Sniffling himself, Sherlock placed a gentle hand to his son's little back, running his fingers up and down. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Let's go call John, hmm?"

"'Es." With a tiny sigh, and keeping his head resting on the detective's shoulder, the little boy draped his arms around Sherlock's neck in preparation.

Ignoring the pounding in his head, Sherlock managed to pull Hamish into his arms without spilling his tea and walked into the sitting room, collapsing onto the couch. "Here. Would you like some? It may help," he asked gently, offering the beverage in his hand to the little boy.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed, gazing into the drink. "'Kay," he whispered, giving a tiny nod of his head.

Smiling sadly as his son sniffled to himself, Sherlock passed the cup to Hamish's chubby fingers, though he kept a firm hold around one of the sides as he pulled his phone out of the cushions, watching carefully as the small boy took a tiny sip of the tea.

"Good, Daddy," Hamish whispered, passing the cup back to his father and leaning heavily against the detective's chest as he blinked slowly, green eyes staring off into the entryway.

"Good... John?" Sherlock asked, having already dialed John's number.

"Yeah?" the doctor answered.

"Hamish is sick, too, so I'll need you to get some medicine for him, as well," the detective sniffled, absentmindedly patting his son's back.

"Oh, really? Poor little guy. You two must have picked up the same virus. Where did you two go in the past few... Oh. The mall."

"Yes," Sherlock said, frowning at the thought. "I knew it was unsanitary."

"Oh, come on now... All right. I need to know if his stomach hurts. Does he feel like he's going to throw up?"

"A moment." Tucking the phone between his jaw and shoulder, Sherlock leaned back. "Hamish?" he asked gently.

"Hmm? What, Daddy?" the little boy yawned, eyes heavy with sleep.

"Hamish, I need to know if your tummy hurts," the detective asked, placing a hand over his son's little stomach.

"Ouch?"

"Yes. Does your tummy hurt?" He gently patted Hamish's belly in an effort to further help him understand.

"Oh. No ouch tum'ny, Daddy."

"Good. Thank you. Can you tell me where it does hurt?"

"Mmm-hmm." Nodding and then huffing sadly as it clearly seemed to hurt his head, Hamish took ahold of his father's much larger hand, wrapping his chubby fingers around several of Sherlock's. "Ouch, Daddy," he stated, placing the detective's fingertips to his nose.

"Your nose hurts?" Sherlock asked, tenderly running a finger over the tip.

"Mmm-hmm."

"All right. Anywhere else?"

"'Es." Frowning and gazing up with wide eyes at his father, Hamish took Sherlock's hand and placed it atop his head. "Ouch."

"And your head hurts..." the detective murmured, giving his son a sympathetic smile as he moved the phone back to his hear. "He's just got a cold and a headache," he translated. "But no stomachache, like me."

"Excellent. Thanks, Sherlock. Should be home in a few. Just let him rest for a little bit if he's tired, okay?"

"Yes," the detective rumbled, tossing the phone away before turning his attention back to his son. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured. "That's no fun, hmm?"

"No. No fun, Daddy. Ouch."

"Yes... I know. But at least your tummy doesn't hurt," Sherlock added, trying to cheer the little boy up.

"Oh. Daddy tum'ny ouch?"

"Only a little. But that's all right; I'll be okay," the detective reassured.

"Oh." Frowning sadly to himself, and with his eyes downcast, Hamish appeared to be thinking deeply for a moment.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked tenderly, brushing some of his son's auburn curls out of his eyes as he analyzed the tiny boy's features.

"Stay, Daddy," Hamish ordered determinedly, though his voice was so tiny and airy, the detective couldn't help but smile.

"All right," he chuckled weakly, allowing the little boy to slide from his lap.

Taking a grateful sip of his tea, Sherlock watched as Hamish disappeared into the kitchen, frowning slightly as he heard the sound of drawers opening and shuffling. "Hamish?" he called worriedly, already standing up on the couch.

"Hame good, Daddy," the little boy called weakly, toddling back into the sitting room.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed in relief, eyeing something Hamish had clutched between his chubby fingers. "What have you got there, Hamish?" he asked, trying to see.

"Help, Daddy," Hamish answered simply. The little boy paused as he reached the couch. Frowning slightly as he tried to figure out what he wanted, Hamish eventually plopped down on the ground and made a gesture, suggesting his father was to follow suit.

Chuckling at his son, and intrigued by what the little boy was going to do, Sherlock slid off the bed and placed his cup of tea a few feet away. "Good?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered, running a tiny fist under his nose as he sniffled. "'Kay." With a tiny nod of his head, the little boy scooted himself closer to Sherlock's seated form. With a sniffle, he gently reached up and tapped the detective's shoulder.

"Would you like me to lay back?" Sherlock asked confusedly, eyes scanning his son's face in an effort to analyze what the little boy was wanting, though he had recently discovered that Hamish was very difficult to deduce. Giving up, deciding he would not understanding what his son was wanting until he was told, Sherlock leaned back on the floor, pulling his robe further around his bare middle.

"'Kay," Hamish hummed. Almost smiling to himself, the little boy nestled himself close to his father's side and pulled out his hands, holding them in front of Sherlock's face.

"Oh," the detective hummed, suddenly understanding and unable to stop himself from smiling as he saw what Hamish had gotten from the kitchen. "I see."

Smiling triumphantly to himself, the tiny boy turned himself and stood up until he was hovering over Sherlock's middle.

The detective watched with a tender gaze, the smile never leaving his lips as Hamish gently pulled open the front of his robe. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle as he heard the distinct crinkling of waxy paper and then felt his son's tiny hands pressing a plaster to his stomach.

"Good, Daddy?" Hamish asked worriedly, placing a hand over the bandage as he looked back to his father's face. "No Daddy tum'ny ouch?"

Not having the heart to explain to his son that a plaster would not take away his stomachache, but finding the idea incredibly precious, Sherlock placed a tender hand to the side of Hamish's head. "Yes, Hamish. That helped very much. Thank you."

"Real, Daddy?" the little boy whispered hopefully, scooting himself downward until he was hovering over the detective's face, eyes quickly scanning down to the plaster resting on his father's stomach.

"Really. That was very kind and thoughtful of you, Hamish." Smiling fondly, Sherlock bent up and pressed a loving kiss to his son's cheek, smiling at the feel of Hamish's soft skin against his lips. "Thank you."

Beaming at his accomplishment, the little boy gently tugged the corners of his father's silky robe back over his stomach, tenderly patting the spot where he'd placed the plaster. "Get 'etter, Daddy," he yawned, falling onto the ground and placing a hand on Sherlock's chest as he snuggled close to his father's side.

"You, too," the detective chuckled, feeling a warmth travel and flutter through his body. "You're so sweet, Hamish," he added, pulling open his robe and tucking the little boy's tiny body close to his bare chest.

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, nodding tiredly against Sherlock's shoulder as he sniffled. Humming to himself, the little boy moved his hand upwards until it was resting in the gap at the base of his father's neck.

"Sorry you're not feeling well," Sherlock murmured, smiling at the ticklish feeling of his son's tiny hand clenching and unclenching against his skin.

"Hmm. Es 'kay, Daddy."

Chuckling to himself, Sherlock gently ruffled his fingertips through Hamish's silky curls, smiling as he felt the little boy's hand still against his flesh and felt his body go limp against his own as he fell asleep, quickly following suit as he felt his own exhaustion.

 

 

 

When John returned home, he quickly placed all of the medicine he'd gotten in the kitchen and made his way into the sitting room, pausing in the doorway at the sight in front of him. On the floor, completely passed out, laid Sherlock on his side, his back facing the kitchen doorway.

"Hamish?" the doctor whispered confusedly, taking a quiet step towards his flat mate's slumbering form. John paused, lips curling into a grin as he moved closer and saw that Hamish was tangled in Sherlock's long arms and robe, his little arms splayed about and pressing against the detective's lips and the floor. Both father and son's mouths hung open slightly as their chests rose and fell in tandem while they rested, a tangled heap on the floor.

Chuckling fondly to himself at the sight, John quickly found a blanket and draped it over their slumbering bodies, not even noticing as he tucked Hamish's form closer to his father's, finding the scene too sweet to really ponder about why they were on the floor.

"You two," he hummed cheerfully, pulling out his phone and snapping as many photos as he could. The doctor stopped, moving to the other side of his flat mates and paused, eyes softening at the likeness between the two.

John was pulled from his thoughts, however, by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Tugging his brows together in mild interest, but still smiling lovingly at the sweetness of his flat mates, the doctor hurried down the stairs and opened the door to be met with a tall, impeccably dressed woman, her dark brown hair pulled back into a tight bun.

"May... I help you?" he asked confusedly, gripping onto the side of the door.

"Yes," the woman answered with a deep, cold voice. "I've come to see Sherlock... And his son," she added, with obvious distaste.

"Uh-huh," John hummed skeptically, automatically blocking the entrance with his body as he felt a protective urge boiling in his stomach. "Does he know you?" he asked, eyes quickly taking in the sharp, icy woman.

"Well he very well should. I'm his mother."


	38. Mummy Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So sorry for the cliffie on the last chapter! Buuuuuuut, I'm done with finals! (YAY!), so writing should be getting back on schedule very soon! Thanks all! Have a great rest of your week!

"Well he very well should. I'm his mother. Eloise Holmes."

John froze in his spot, knuckles turning white as he gripped onto the frame of the door. "His… You're… No," he breathed, shaking his head at her sharp form. "What do you want?" the doctor asked coldly, not budging from his position.

"Oh, just to… See him," the woman replied with a submissive wave of her hand. "Check up on him."

"How do you know about Hamish?" John hissed, an unusual feeling forming in the pit of his stomach.

"Mycroft, of course. Accidentally let it slip, let me in, Doctor," she said cooly, letting her sentence slide into one. It was clear she was eager to enter the flat.

"I'm sorry, I just… They're both resting right now, so if you wouldn't mind—"

"Oh please," Eloise scoffed. With a huff of breath, she pushed herself past John's smaller form and shoved her way into the flat.

"Agh—" John cried, anger boiling in his chest. He started to form a protest, but Eloise just continued up the stairs, forcing her way into the flat. She stopped in the entryway, curling her lips in disgust upon seeing her son, sound asleep on the floor, long limbs splayed about as he rested. "Where's the child? Hamish?"

"He's out—with our landlady—please," John tried, grabbing the woman by the arm and trying to urge her back and out the flat.

Ignoring the doctor's protests, Eloise took a step forward and around her son's slumbering from. "Oh," she sighed in distaste upon seeing Hamish curled protectively in the detective's arms. "They sleep on the floor, do they?"

"No, no. They just… They're both sick right now, and very tired, now please, could you come back later when they're both better?" John asked hurriedly, once again urging the woman back towards the door.

"Oh, I don't think so, Doctor Watson…"

With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock's body visibly tensed on the floor. Humming unhappily, the detective groggily opened his eyes and shifted, pulling Hamish's form closer to his middle. "John?" he asked, deep voice sounding raw and much lower than usual.

"Uhh, yeah… Sherlock?"

"Who...?" the detective trailed away as he opened his eyes fully to see his mother, gazing distastefully down at him. Breath halting to a painful stop mid-breath, Sherlock quickly stood up, straightening so he was towering over his mother, and quickly clutched Hamish to his chest as he glared at Eloise. "What are you doing here?" he spat, curling his slender fingers protectively over his son's shoulder as he tucked him close. "Mycroft…"

"No need for hostility, dear. I've just come to see… If you've gotten yourself sorted out, especially now you have a son," Eloise responded calmly, though the icy undertones in her voice were quite clear.

"Take him to our room," Sherlock whispered, passing Hamish to the doctor.

"Our room?" Eloise questioned.

"Yes," the detective responded, refusing to give his mother the satisfaction of an explanation. Though he did not despise his mother nearly as much as he did his father, Sherlock still loathed her for not protecting him from the years of abuse suffered at the hand of his father.

Glancing anxiously between the two, John turned on his heel, and holding his little flat mate close and hurried into Sherlock's room. "It'll be all right, bud," he whispered, running a few fingers over Hamish's cheeks as he tucked the little boy under the covers before shutting the door behind him and hurrying back into the sitting room.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked calmly, closing his robe around his exposed middle. "Tell me."

Sighing, Eloise turned and sat down in Sherlock's chair. The detective watched her with careful eyes, straightening to his full height and crossed his fingers behind his back.

"It's not as if you don't already know," Eloise drawled, and John couldn't help but notice the uncanny resemblance to Mycroft's voice.

"You think I'm unfit to take care of my son due to my past… Mistakes."

"Very quick, as usual Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes praised, which only earned a glare.

"I am more than capable of taking care of Hamish," the detective all-but-hissed. "You and I both know I am not the same… I don't… We both are well aware that I have not…"

Eloise merely raised an eyebrow at her son, fixing him with a look only mothers can give. "Sherlock. Come now. Think of the boy. What would happen if you were to use again, hmm? What's to say you wouldn't lash out at him? We both know you can have quite a… temper, on occasion."

John's chest was heaving as he listened to Mrs. Holmes all-but-scold his flat mate for something he knew would never happen, and couldn't help but clench his fists at his side as a bout of anger boiled and burned his stomach. Shaking his head and scoffing at Eloise's reasoning, the doctor turned to his friend and felt his heart sink as he saw the look on Sherlock's face. The detective's angular features were creased with what could only be described as brokeness. It was clear Sherlock was thinking very carefully about what his mother had just told him… And underneath those ever-changing blue eyes, John could see… "No," he breathed out loud, giving Sherlock an incredulous look. "You can not be considering this!" he shouted, raising his voice a bit more than usual. "Sherlock, look at me."

Shaking his head a bit as if he was trying to clear his mind of something, Sherlock eventually turns to John and the doctor felt a strange feeling churn in his stomach. His friend looked completely confused. His brows were pulled together in an almost lost expression, and never in their time together had John seen anything in his flat mate's eyes that ever resembled confusion… Or fear. "Sherlock," he began gently, ignoring the scoff and eye roll from Eloise. "You know and I know that you are the best thing that ever happened to Hamish, just as he was the best to you. Come on, Sherlock," the doctor practically begged, making a gesture towards the bedroom where the little boy was resting. "Don't even consider it. He belongs here. With you. Trust me. Besides we both know what would happen if anyone ever dreamed of trying to take him away, hmm?" he added, glancing towards Eloise who had pressed her lips into a tight line.

Releasing a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, Sherlock nearly choked on his own breath. With a few blinks, the detective's face almost immediately returned to it's usual set expression of concentration and John nearly chuckled in relief as his flat mate turned back to his mother. "He's staying here with me," Sherlock stated calmly, raising an eyebrow at her. "Hamish is my son and you will not be taking him away from me."

"John?" Eloise practically laughed in disbelief. "Are you not even concerned for the boy's welfare at—"

"No. I trust Sherlock completely. With both my life and Hamish's."

Scoffing quietly, Mrs. Holmes glanced between the two flat mates standing side by side. "You will not be swayed," she stated.

"No," John and Sherlock answered simultaneously.

"Well then. We'll just have to do something about that, yes?"

"Oh please," John cried, throwing his arms in the air as he rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"You have absolutely no right to come in here and take Hamish away from him! If there were ever two people so perfectly sculpted to fit into each other's lives, I certainly haven't—"

"Save it, Doctor Watson. If you're so keen to convince me, then where's the mother, hmm?" Lips curled down into a frown, Eloise turned her attention to Sherlock, whose usually alabaster cheeks were now flushed a light pink. "Have you really just been sleeping around with—"

"He is not mine by blood," Sherlock spat, a rush of loathing suddenly pooling in his chest as he glared icily at his mother. "I adopted Hamish."

Clearly stunned by what her son had just told her, Eloise Holmes merely stared wide-eyed at Sherlock, mouth hanging open. "Well," she gasped giving both the flat mate's a disapproving glare. "He's not really yours then."

"What?" Sherlock reeled, anger boiling in his veins. Before he could reply any further, however, John had stepped in front of him, his smaller form glaring down at Eloise Homes.

"What?!" the doctor spat, cheeks flushing a dark red as his fists clenched together at his sides. "You think that little boy is not really his, just because they don't share the same DNA? Ma'am, you have not seen the way your son treats Hamish. I've never seen a person with so much love in their heart for one person. Hamish may not be related to Sherlock by blood, but let me say that I have never seen a father and his son who love each other so much. Whether Hamish has a part of Sherlock in him or not, that little boy," he spat, gesturing tersely to his flat mate, "is his son. And what they have is truly beautiful. And do you know why, ma'am? Because they have such an overwhelming amount of love for each other, that nothing else matters. Not who his mother is, not where he came from, not even how he got here. Sherlock is Hamish's father, like it or not. And if you can't see that, you are more than welcome to leave this flat," John finished, chest heaving and face etched with pure anger.

Both the Holmes' stood frozen in their places as they stared at John. A small, almost pleased smile slowly spread across Sherlock's face. Before anyone could speak, though, there came an incredibly tiny voice. "John? Wha' doing?"

Almost instantly, Sherlock was in the hallway, robe billowing gracefully behind him as he hurried to where Hamish was leaning against the doorway to his room, one of his shirts clutched to his bare chest. "Hey there," he whispered gently, keeling down on the ground in front of his son to take one of his tiny hands in his own. "What's wrong, hmm?"

"Wha' John angry, Daddy?" Hamish asked sadly, his little voice sounding raw and stuffy from the sickness.

Smiling in a sad, melancholy sort of way, Sherlock pulled the little boy into his arms and onto his hip, gently taking the shirt from his son's hands. "Hamish," the detective started carefully, keeping his ever-changing eyes glued to Hamish's face. "This is your Grandma Eloise," he said, stepping into the living room.

Hamish, who had been leaning heavily against Sherlock's shoulder gazed around the room, freezing as he saw the stranger sitting in his father's chair. "Daddy?" he asked, tugging worriedly at the detective's collar. "Who is?"

"That," Sherlock stated carefully, huddling closer to John, "is your Grandma. My mummy," he explained gently, giving the little boy a smile of encouragement despite his own feelings. "Can you say hello?"

"He'o," Hamish whispered, mouth hanging open in amazement as he stared at the angular woman.

"Ah. Hamish," Eloise drawled, managing a warm smile as she stood and moved towards the trio of flat mates. "Hello there."

With a quick gasp, Hamish turned, burying his face in Sherlock's neck. "Hmm," he whined unhappily, head pounding as he bumped against the detective's skin.

"It's all right, Hamish," Sherlock soothed, gesturing in a way that suggested his mother was to stop.

"He should not be frightened of me, Sherlock," Eloise retorted defensively, furrowing her eyebrows at her grandson's reaction.

"He's sick, mum," the detective replied, equally as defensive, covering his son's head with his chin.

With a small huff of breath, Eloise debated for a moment, before giving an infinitesimal nod of her head and taking a step backward.

"Hamish, are you all right, bud?" John asked worriedly, placing a hand on the little boy's back.

"Ew, John," Hamish mumbled, tugging unhappily at a lock of his father's hair.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, little man… How's your head feeling?"

"Not," the small boy frowned, turning to glance warily at Eloise, who attempted a reassuring smile.

"I'm sorry, Hamish," Sherlock murmured.

"Hamish?" Eloise inputted suddenly, taking a step forward. "Would you like to come see me?" she offered, holding her arms out.

Pushing his bottom lip out as he thought, Hamish looked up to Sherlock for reassurance, sniffling.

"It's all right, Hamish," the detective reassured, his son giving a smile with much more reassurance than he himself felt.

With a feeble nod of his head, the little boy held his arms out towards his grandmother. "There you go," Sherlock whispered, gently passing his son into his mother's open arms, though he kept his fingers wrapped around the little boy's chubby hand, an action which John couldn't help but almost smile at.

"Hello, Hamish," Eloise said, a bit more harshly than she had intended to. The little boy flinched slightly at the sound, but then settled more into her arms, clutching his tiny fingers around several of Sherlock's and tugging them close to her chest.

"He'o," he whispered hesitantly, trying to give the woman a smile.

"Hello, Hamish. I'm you're—"

"Daddy mummy?" the little boy inputted softly, absently prodding at her neck.

"Now, Hamish," Eloise started, raising a disapproving eyebrow at Hamish. "We don't—" She was interrupted, however, by a stern "cough" from Sherlock, followed by a quick shake of his head. "Ah, umm… Yes. I am your father's mother. Your grandmother."

"Like Nana?" Hamish asked, though the question was directed towards his father and John.

"Well… Not quite," Sherlock murmured, giving a gentle squeeze of his fingers. "But almost."

"Oh. What name?"

"Grandma Eloise," Mrs. Holmes inputted firmly, ignoring the glare she was receiving from both her son and his flat mate.

"Oh. Uhn… Nan… Nan'ma Elsie," Hamish tried, gazing hopefully towards his father.

"Excellent!" Sherlock praised, pushing the pounding in his head aside as he leaned forward to press his lips to his son's cheek as softly as he could. "Very good job!"

"Mmm," Eloise hummed, clearly assessing the situation, though (thankfully) keeping her observations and thoughts to herself.

"Hmm," Hamish whined, clutching Sherlock's hand closer to his chest. "Daddy?"

"Come here, love," the detective whispered, not waiting for any kind of permission from his mother before he quickly pulled the small boy back into his arms, tucking him under his robe. Sherlock frowned slightly as he felt his son's warm skin against his own. Knowing it would only add fuel to the fire to point it out now, he slipped a hand under the robe and placed it against Hamish's back before turning back to his mother.

"Does he get sick often?"

"No, mum!" Sherlock cried, cringing as he felt Hamish shiver in his arms. "Sorry, love. No. This is only the—what, the second time?" he asked, turning to confirm with John.

"Yes," the doctor agreed, gazing accusingly at Eloise.

"Fine. Good. Well I'll uhh... Just be off then, as it's clear I'm not wanted and you two seem to have it... Under control. Afternoon, Sherlock. John. Goodbye, Hamish. See you very soon."

"Mmm. B'bye, Nam'na Elsie," Hamish managed. Sniffling, he turned in Sherlock's arms and gave a tiny wave of his chubby hand. "Back?"

Mouth hanging open slightly, Eloise stopped where she was standing. Sherlock turned, contorting slightly so he could see his mother's face, and couldn't help but follow suit by freezing in his spot. His insightful detective's eyes expertly scanned over her face; the familiar features of her sharp cheekbones and thin lips. Sherlock's mouth slowly parted as he saw his mother's usually cold and calculating features go soft and warm as something—a smile?—twisted up the corners of her lips.

And with that tiny smile, Sherlock felt a flicker of hope light in his chest.

"B'bye," Hamish yawned again, giving another wave of his tiny hand as he nuzzled against his father's neck, breathing heavily against the alabaster skin.

"Bye, Hamish," Eloise whispered, giving a tiny twirl of her fingers as a wave. "Bye..." Taking a deep intake of breath, and with a few blinks to clear herself, the woman returned her gaze to her son's eyes. Almost instantly, the softness that had warmed her features dissipated and she straightened again. However, not before she'd given a tiny twitch of her lips, impossibly similar to the one Sherlock gives. "Afternoon." With a small nod of her head towards John, Eloise Holmes slipped from the flat.

Sherlock stood, a strange, almost proud sensation forming in his chest. "Bye," he whispered to the wall, not even noticing how he had buried his fingertips in Hamish's curls and was gently swaying back and forth. He was pulled from his thoughts, however, by the sound of his flat mate's heavy footfalls on the wood of the floor.

"She's going to try to take him," the doctor fumed, running his fingers through his sandy hair as he paced back and forth.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock murmured, still lost in the feeling of rare praise he had received from his mother.

"What? What do you mean you're not sure? Of course she is, Sherlock!"

"I just... She smiled. At him," the detective hummed, tenderly ruffling Hamish's curls and then smiling as he felt the little boy's warm breath against his neck.

"So?"

"It means she's going soft on him... I don't know. It's just a feeling, that's all. Oh. John?"

"Yeah. Yeah? Sorry, what?"

"He's asleep," Sherlock murmured, gazing down with soft eyes at the steady rise and fall of Hamish's back.

"Oh. Shoot! We need to get him some medicine." Kneading a few fingers into his temple, John turned on his heel and hurried into the kitchen.

Sherlock could hear the gentle rustling of the plastic shopping bags as his flat mate bustled about the kitchen. "Hamish? Hamish?" he coaxed gently, sitting down on the couch and cuddling his son's small form close.

With a tiny groan of disapproval, Hamish groggily opened his eyes, squirming slightly in his father's arms. "Ouch, Daddy."

"I know. I know it hurts. I'm sorry. John's getting some medicine right now to help, all right?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, curling into Sherlock's embrace.

"All right. Here we are." John returned from the kitchen with a series of bottles in his hand and a spoon in the other. "Hame?" he asked gently, kneeling in front of his two flat mates.

"Hmm?"

"Can you turn and look at me, bud? I need to give you some medicine so we can help make you better, all right?"

"Mmm-kay."

Seeing as Hamish was not going to turn himself around, Sherlock gently spun the little boy on his lap until he was facing John.

"All right. First one. One, two, three. Very good!" the doctor praised as he shoved the first spoonful in. "Second one."

"No," Hamish protested shoving back against his father's stomach as he stared warily at the second spoonful. "Daddy?"

"I promise it will help make you better, all right? Last one. You can do it," the detective encouraged, wrapping his long fingers around one of his son's wrists and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Sniffling sadly and with tears steadily filling his eyes, Hamish gave a feeble nod of his head and opened his mouth, instantly curling backward the moment he had swallowed the second medicine.

"Good job, Hame," John praised, running an apologetic hand up and down his flat mate's back. "That should help make you feel better, all right?"

"Mmm-hmm. Ta, John."

Both Sherlock and the doctor couldn't help but laugh out loud (feebly, mind you) at the fact that Hamish had just thanked John. "You are something else, Hame," the doctor chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to the back of the little boy's head and then awkwardly apologizing when he bumped Sherlock's chin on the way back.

"Do you want me to get your medicine?"

"No, that's all right. I think I'll stay here with him until he wakes up again," Sherlock chuckled, gesturing to Hamish who was practically fast asleep on his chest again. "Thank you, John."

"Yep. You're welcome." John quickly deposited the spoon and medicine back in the kitchen before making his way back into the sitting room and plopping down on his chair. The doctor watched fondly as his flat mate leaned back on the couch, carefully situating Hamish's head so it was just by his cheek.

The two flat mates merely stared at the little boy, each trying to ignore the paralyzing feeling of fear that was staring to creep into their veins.

Despite the doctor's presence, Sherlock began to press soft, tender kiss to Hamish's curls, watching the gentle rise and fall of his son's chest as a way to ground him. "We'll be fine," he murmured aloud, not even realizing he'd done it. "Yes."

It took a moment for John to even really realizing his friend had spoken. "What? Sorry, Sherlock I was..." The doctor smiled fondly as he saw that Sherlock, too had passed out, his long, violinists fingers gently holding a few locks of Hamish's hair. "Poor guys," John murmured absently as he gazed at his flat mates sick figures. "Get better soon," he added, curling back into his own chair. "And God help us with his bloody mother," the doctor muttered before linking his fingers over his stomach and taking a deep breath.

The three flat mates slept silently in the sitting room, their steady breaths the only sound filling the quiet flat, with Hamish huddled close to his father's slumbering form and John resting protectively close by.


	39. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! So, first off, I just want to apologize for all the mistakes you may find in this one; I have absolutely no idea how horrible they may be! Spellcheck is literally my worst enemy! Anyway, I hope everyone who is on break now has had a lovely one thus far, and I want to wish everyone a Happy Christmas Eve and a Merry Christmas! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday. Also, thanks to all the lovely people who have reviewed on the last few chapters. You all are literally my motivation, and they are always appreciated, even if I don't have the time to tell you that personally! Thanks to all my readers! You're the best! Merry Christmas, guys!

John was awoken by a gentle tugging at the hem of his jumper. "Hmm… Hamish? Are you all right, bud?" he asked, sitting up in the chair as he noticed that Hamish was staring expectantly up at him. "What's wrong, hmm?"

"Owie, John," the little boy mumbled, wobbling slightly as he gripped onto the doctor's jumper.

"Owie? What hurts, hmm?" John asked gently, bending down and scooping the little boy into his arms and then onto his lap. He shot a quick glance towards Sherlock to find that the detective was still sleeping soundly on the couch, his fingers resting where Hamish's form had been.

Running a tiny fist under his nose, the little boy whined sadly to himself and tucked his head under John's chin. "Ouch," he stated, gently tapping his throat with a single, chubby finger. "Owie, John."

"Your throat hurts?" John asked tenderly, placing a comforting hand to his tiny flat mate's back.

"Mmm-hmm. An' ouch here." Sniffling and beginning to shiver in the doctor's arms, Hamish placed a hand over his stomach. "Tum'ny ouch."

"And your tummy hurts..." John mused aloud, frowning slightly as he wrapped his arms around the little boy's body. "Are you cold?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Yeah... Okay... Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up," the doctor called as softly as he could, gently cradling Hamish's form close.

"Uhm... Hmm? What? Yes... Wh... Where's Hamish?" Sherlock asked tiredly, pressing a palm to his eyes as he shifted on the sofa.

"He's over here with me. But he saying his throat hurts and his stomach. If it doesn't get better in the next few days, I think we might want to take him to A&E, all right?"

"What, John? What is?" Hamish inquired, eyes drooping slightly as he gazed up at the doctor.

"Oh, uhh... It's just a doctor's office, bud," John reassured gently, giving the little boy a warm smile and a quick ruffle of his curls. "It's open all the time for emergencies, that's all."

"Oh. 'Kay... John?"

"Yeah?"

"Go Daddy?"

"Oh, yes of course! Sorry, Hame." With careful movements, John slowly left the chair and deposited Hamish's weak form in Sherlock's lap.

"Oh," the detective gasped quietly, having still been in the process of waking up. "Hello there."

"Hame have sick, Daddy," the little boy groaned softly, wrapping his arms around his father's neck.

"Yes... I'm sorry, Hamish. How do you feel?"

"Not."

"Not... Do you feel worse?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Sherlock shared a quick glance with John as he gently stroked a few fingers over the back of his son's neck.

"I'll get some water for him," John said softly.

"Yes." Frowning down at Hamish, Sherlock stood and tucked his small form close, gently swaying from side to side. "Shh," he soothed gently, pressing a tender kiss to the little boy's temple. "John, he's burning up."

"Yes, I know," the doctor sighed sadly, returning from the kitchen with a sippy cup of water in his hand and a thermometer in the other. "Poor thing," he whispered, passing the cup to his flat mate.

"Hamish, love, are you thirsty?"

"No," the little boy moaned, pressing his cheek against Sherlock's neck as he took a deep breath, scrunching his little eybrows together.

"Hame, you need to have a drink, okay?"

"No, John. No want," Hamish persisted weakly. With a tiny whine, the little boy placed a hand atop his father's and gave a gentle shove, pushing the cup away.

Frowning sadly, Sherlock gently bounced Hamish on his hip. "Hamish, you need to have a drink, okay? I know you don't feel well, but I promise, this will help."

"No. No, 'ease, Daddy?" Sniffling and with his tiny chest heaving, the little boy shivered in his father's arms and closed his eyes, snuggling further into Sherlock's warm hold.

"Hame," John tried gently, crossing to the other side of his flat mates. He gestured for Sherlock to sit and quickly followed suit, thermometer in hand. "Please, bud?" he asked, placing a hand on the little boy's leg.

Hamish, who had slid down his father's torso and was now leaning heavily against the detective's chest, turned and gazed at John for a moment, contemplating. "'Kay, John," he whispered eventually with a feeble nod of his head.

"Good job, Hamish," Sherlock encouraged gently, running a few fingers up and down his son's warm back.

Blinking slowly, Hamish reached a tiny hand towards his father's. "'Kay, Daddy..."

"There you go," the detective murmured, handing the cup to the little boy's outstretched hand. "Very good job."

Nodding, Hamish took the cup and hesitantly took a sip. He frowned, wincing slightly as he swallowed. "John," he coughed, pressing his face to Sherlock's chest as he touched his throat. "Ouch."

"I know, I know it hurts. But I've put some honey in it, so just a few more sips and soon it will feel better. Promise."

With a skeptical sniffle, Hamish gave a tiny nod of his head and moved the cup back to his mouth. "Good man," John whispered, sharing a worried glance with Sherlock.

"Mmm," the little boy hummed, eyes slowly sliding shut as he continued to sip from the cup, a protective film having dulled the pain when he swallowed.

"Poor thing," Sherlock murmured, staring sadly down at his son's limp form.

"Hmm," Hamish hummed in response, nuzzling against his father's warm skin. Murmuring unintelligibly to himself, the little boy grabbed ahold of a fistful of the detective's robe and quickly fell asleep, the cup of water still in his mouth.

"He's asleep," Sherlock's murmured to himself, carding his fingers through his son's silky curls. "He's so warm, John..."

"I know," the doctor replied. "But he should be all right... I'm guessing it's just a 24 hour bug. Are you feeling any better?"

"I feel fine, just a little tired," the detective mumbled absently, giving a submissive wave of his hand before returning to fretting over his son's slumbering form.

"Here. I'll go get a wet wash cloth; we'll try and bring his temperature down. Take it for me?"

"Yes." Giving his friend a thankful smile, Sherlock took the thermometer from John's hand. "Up we go, love," he whispered, gently tugging Hamish's shirt off before tucking the instrument under the little boy's armpit.

"Here we are," John murmured, entering from the kitchen with a wet cloth in hand. "What's his temp?" he asked, plopping back down on the couch.

"101.2," Sherlock mumbled, frowning at the number.

"Here, take his trousers off as well. We'll try to cool him down a bit while he's still sleeping."

"Yes." Moving slowly and gently so as not to wake him, Sherlock gently laid Hamish on his lap and pulled off his pants. With a tiny moan, the little boy curled into a ball on his father's lap and rolled over, pressing himself into the detective's stomach. "Mmm," he hummed, eyes fluttering open and then shut again as he buried a fist in Sherlock's trousers.

"Shh," the detective soothed, placing a tender hand to the back of his son's head. "Shh..." Knowing it always seemed to comfort Hamish, Sherlock began to gently stroke his fingertips through the little boy's auburn curls, down the length of his spine and then back again.

"Here you go," John whispered, passing the cloth to his flat mate.

"Thank you." Smiling sadly at his son's sleeping form, Sherlock carefully pulled Hamish's head away from his stomach and positioned him so he could place the cool flannel over the little boy's forehead. "There we are," he murmured, running a few more fingers through Hamish's curls as he adjusted the cool cloth.

"He'll be fine, Sherlock," John almost chuckled.

"Oh, I... Yes, I know, I'm just... Worried. And saddened by the fact that I can't stop it."

"I understand. It's a parent thing. Instincts to protect and take away pain. I get it." Smiling fondly to himself, John turned his attention back to his flat mate and couldn't help but laugh out loud at the look on his friend's face. "What?" he chuckled, shrugging in confusion.

"Instincts?" Sherlock inquired confusedly, furrowing his brows at the doctor.

"Well, yes. Hamish is your son, just as you're his father. Paternal instincts tell you to try to help and protect him."

"I have paternal instincts?" the detective gasped, parting his lips slightly at the thought.

"Well, of course you do," John chuckled, giving Sherlock a quizzical smile. "Anything you do for him without really thinking it through—holding his hand when you go down the stairs, talking to him in a gentle voice when he's upset—things like that. It's all your paternal instincts kicking in, telling you to do that. Just like they're telling you to be protective now. It's all right," the doctor added upon seeing how confused his friend seemed. "It's just nature."

"Right, yes… Uhh… Thank you, John," Sherlock mumbled absently, twirling a lock of Hamish's silky hair between the pads of his fingers. "I suppose I do do those things without really thinking, don't I?" he mused aloud, though it seemed he was speaking more to Hamish than his flat mate.

"Mmm-hmm," John hummed, smiling in a knowing way at the detective. Lacing his fingers over his middle, the doctor settled further in to the cushions of the couch and closed his eyes, eager to resume his afternoon nap. "Mmm," he hummed contently to himself.

Too lost in his thoughts to notice, Sherlock began to absentmindedly rub a few fingers over his bottom lip as he pondered, keeping his free hand buried in Hamish's auburn locks. "Instincts," he mumbled aloud, smiling down at his son. The detective froze momentarily as the little boy shifted on his lap, rolling onto his back. "I'm sorry you're sick, Hamish," he murmured, brushing a few unruly curls from Hamish's flushed forehead. His gaze fell down to the little boy's feet and Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he saw his son's tiny toes curl and uncurl against the couch. Lips quirking up into a loving half-smile, the detective bent down and gently ran his thumb over Hamish's curled toes. "So tiny," he chuckled, feeling a flutter of reassurance in chest as he saw a small smile tug up the corners his son's lips.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed in his sleep, clenching his fingers together and further around his father's trousers.

Chuckling softly to himself, Sherlock gently tickled the bottom of the little boy's foot, smiling at the feeling of the soft skin against his fingertips. "Get better, love," he whispered, releasing Hamish's toes and wrapping his much-larger hand around the little boy's tiny fingers, enveloping them safely in his own before closing his eyes and settling into a comfortable nap.

 

 

 

Hamish and Sherlock more or less slept the rest of the day away and, much to the chagrin of John, in various places around the flat. Hamish: twice on the floor, three times on top of Sherlock, once on the couch, and twice curled up in either John or Sherlock's chair. Sherlock: four times on the couch, twice in his chair and once in the bathroom with Hamish after false-alarm wave of nausea. The two had only slept in bed once, and it was per the command of John, who was tired of having to walk around their limp forms.

It was on the second day, after having ordered Sherlock to take his son and actually sleep in the bed, that John awoke to a completely quiet flat. Unnerved by the silence, the doctor quickly hurried downstairs in his pajamas and opened the door to his flat mate's bedroom and couldn't help but chuckle in relief to himself. Over the past 24 hours, John had discovered that Sherlock, who almost always managed to look professional and proper, when sick, slept in the most unusual and unattractive poses he had ever seen him in. At this particular moment, the detective's long limbs were splayed about the bed, with Hamish sleeping half on his chest and half-tangled somewhere under one of his arms. Both of their mouths were hanging open and John couldn't help but find the look on Sherlock's face, which was mirrored on his son's, to be somewhat precious and comical at the same time.

Deciding to give them more time to rest, and with a small smirk on his lips, John silently left the room and shut the door behind him, deciding to make breakfast for Hamish, knowing that Sherlock would probably not eat.

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke to the feeling of hot breath on his cheeks. Chuckling slightly, as he knew it was Hamish, the detective slowly opened his eyes to find the little boy was practically on top of his face, his little limbs wrapped tightly around his neck.

"Mmm. Hamish?" the detective mumbled, gently ruffling his son's silky curls.

"'Es, Daddy?" the little boy sighed, eyes fluttering open and then closed against as he settled further against Sherlock.

"We need to get up," the detective chuckled, pressing his lips to Hamish's temple and couldn't help but frown as he noticed that the little boy still had fever. "Okay?"

"Hmm… 'Kay, Da'ey…" Hamish hummed, moaning softly as Sherlock removed his arms from his bare back. "Daddy," the little boy whined, curling inward in an effort to regain the warmth lost by the absence of his father's embrace.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked. Wrapping his arms around Hamish's bare middle again, the detective sat up, and carefully deposited the little boy in his lap.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Ah, I see. Well… Let's see if we can't fix that, hmm? Besides, it smells like John's been cooking… Hmm? What does that smell like?" Hoping to lighten Hamish's mood, Sherlock pr etended to sniff the air, over-exagerating the movement. "Do you smell that?" he asked dramatically, gently tickling his son's bare stomach.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy giggled half-heartedly, trying to hide his smile by hiding under Sherlock's arm.

"Was that a smile, hmm?" the detective laughed, carefully pulling Hamish's giggling from from under his armpit and plopping him back down on his lap, taking the genuine smile on his son's face as encouragement that he was on the mend.

"No!" Hamish laughed, giggling cheerfully as he tried to crawl from his father's grasp, tugging the covers up over his head.

"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock laughed, a genuine smile playing across his cupid bow's lips, the first in nearly a day.

"'Es!" Hamish finally admitted, attempting to wrap his arms around the detective's middle.

"Ah! I knew it! See? Never doubt your father's deductive skills, hmm? Hmm?" Sherlock chuckled, gently tickling the back of his son's neck and back.

"Hmm-mmm," Hamish laughed, giggling into his father's chest. "'Es, Daddy," he sighed, pulling from the detective's robe to smile up at him.

"That's my boy," Sherlock whispered, brushing the back of his knuckles over the little boy's forehead as he gave him a warm smile. "Now! I say we go eat some of John's burned pancakes, hmm?"

"Cakes?" Hamish gasped softly, sliding off his father's chest as the detective exited the bed.

"Yes. Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Come along then." Chuckling lovingly at his son's happiness, but remembering that his son was still sick, Sherlock tugged off his robe and wrapped it around Hamish's tiny body before pulling the little boy onto his hip before turning and exiting into the kitchen. "Mmm," he drawled sarcastically, giving Hamish a quick wink. "Smells delicious as always, John. Lucky for you Hamish cannot yet tell the difference between burnt and… Normal."

"Don't appreciate the sarcasm," the doctor huffed in response, quickly scooping a burned pancake from the skillet and plopping it on to a plate.

"Obviously. Hence my use of it. And it seems to be cheering Hamish up."

"Oh. Hey there, little man," John chuckled, shooting a quick glare towards his friend before hurrying over to the table with a plate of mostly-burnt pancakes. "How you feeling, bud? Better?"

"Hame 'etter?" the little boy asked, frowning slightly as he tried to untangle himself from the silky fabric of his father's robe.

"Yes," John laughed aloud, passing a plate with a pancake and utensils over to Sherlock, who had just seated himself and Hamish at the table. "Are you feeling better?" In response, the little boy just continued to fiddle with the blue robe, desperately trying to fee himself from the fabric.

"Here," Sherlock chuckled fondly, gently shoving his arm's down to his sides. "And yes, John, I do believe he's feeling much better, though he still has a fever," the detective explained, carefully pulling Hamish's chubby limbs from the fabric of his robe and tossing the fabric away as he knew it was bound to get filthy if the little boy wore it while eating.

"We'll take his temperature after breakfast, and if it hasn't gone down a little, we can take him to hospital, all right?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response, too busy with situating Hamish on his thigh as he started to cut the pancake into small pieces for the little boy. "Here you are," he chuckled.

"Ta, Daddy," Hamish thanked, taking the piece of breakfast his father had just offered.

"So, did you two sleep well?" John asked, smirking down at his food.

"What?"

"You and Hamish. Did you two sleep well?"

"Why are you doing that?"

"What?"

"Smirking."

"I'm not smirking."

"Yes you are," Sherlock countered, frowning slightly as he gazed at his friend, eyes quickly scanning over his face. "Ah. We looked humorous while sleeping?"

"How do… Nevermind. And yes. Well, more like you did," the doctor chuckled, smiling as Hamish hurriedly grabbed another piece of pancake and shoved it in his mouth. "It was rather adorable actually."

"My… Me sleeping was adorable?" Sherlock asked, now genuinely confused.

"What? Oh! No, no, you two together were. You know what? Nevermind. Forget I even said anything…"

Smirking triumphantly at his flat mate's flushed cheeks, Sherlock returned his attention to feeding Hamish, chuckling and smiling in relief at how much the little boy was eating.

 

 

 

After having finished breakfast, both John and Sherlock were relieved to find that though Hamish still had a fever, it had dropped to 100.1, and the little boy clearly seemed to be on the mend.

"Well then," Sherlock sighed dramatically, entering the sitting room with Hamish on his hip. "What shall we do for the rest of the day, hmm?"

Hamish thought for a moment, resting his head on top of his father's shoulder as he contemplated. "Tom Tank?" he asked eventually, absentmindedly tracing the gap at the base of Sherlock's neck.

"Excellent," the detective murmured, pressing a loving kiss to his son's temple.

 

 

 

Sherlock, Hamish and John spent the rest of the day curled up around the living room, watching countless episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine. Hamish remained curled up in a blanket most of the day, seated either on the couch, in his father's lap or with John in his chair.

Eventually, after having coaxed some more food and liquid into the boy, Hamish was finally starting to tire out. "Sherlock," John chuckled, grabbing the attention of the detective, who was currently seated on the floor, leaning against the couch. "Look at him," the doctor mouthed, gesturing to Hamish, who was resting on his lap in a blanket. The little boy was starting to doze off, and each time his head would begin to fall he would jolt awake again with a tiny gasp, only to have his eyes flutter closed again and repeat the process.

"Hmm? Oh," Sherlock whispered, having starting to doze off, himself. The detective couldn't help but smile as a tiny sigh escaped his son's lips. "Poor thing's exhausted."

"That's good, though," John whispered, groaning as he stood up, taking Hamish's sleepy form with him. "Means his body is fighting it and he's recovering."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in response, smiling fondly at his son.

"I'm going to go put him to bed, hmm?"

"Yes." Running a hand through his raven curls, the detective slowly pushed himself up from his position on the floor, planting a quick kiss to Hamish's cheek. "Good." Suddenly, however, there came a quiet knock from the door (Sherlock had managed to break the doorbell… again). Both the flat mate's heads turned towards the entryway and then back to each other. "Here, I'll… Take him," Sherlock murmured, opening his arms towards the doctor.

"Oh. Yeah, right. Here." Frowning slightly, as he was suspicious of who might be at the door, John carefully passed his tiny flat mate's almost-slumbering form to Sherlock before hurrying down the stairs. "Ah. Mrs. Holmes," he said cooly, trying to hide the distaste in his voice as he opened the front door.

"Yes, John. No need to sound so displeased. Are Sherlock and Hamish in?"

"Yeah, they're both upstairs, though Hamish is just about passed out now. They're both on the mend, though, so that's good."

"Indeed. May I see them?"

"Uhh… Sure," John sighed, knowing that even if he said no, Eloise would only force her way in again.

"Good. Thank you."

Running a few fingers through his short hair, John started to worry his bottom lip with his teeth as Eloise ran upstairs. Shutting the door and glancing anxiously towards Mrs. Hudson's flat as if hoping she would run out and come save them from the wrath of Eloise Holmes, the doctor turned, steeling himself as he hurried up the stairs. John was almost too lost in his thoughts to notice, however, as he reached the landing that Eloise had paused in the doorway, and was staring at something in the flat. "Oh!" he gasped softly, having almost run into her tall form. "Sorry, but what are…" The doctor paused as he moved next to her and gazed into the flat. A wide grin spread across his face as he saw, or rather heard, what Eloise had paused at.

"Really? Ah… Yes. Well, yes of course," came Sherlock's deep, baritone voice, rumbling with the softness and tenderness he reserved only for conversations with Hamish. Eventually, mingling with his father's deep vocals came the little boy's tiny voice, floating to the entryway as he spoke with the detective.

"Yes… Yes? Good," Sherlock chuckled from where he was lying on the couch, though all that could be seen was the back of his head.

"Mmm-hmm," came Hamish's obviously tired response. It was clear from their position in the entryway that the little boy had lain down on his father's chest and his smaller head could be seen as he tucked his head under Sherlock's jaw.

"Good… Good," the detective whispered, absently running his fingers over and through his son's hair as he waited for the little boy to fall asleep, completely conscious of the forms waiting behind him.

"Mmm… 'Ove, Daddy…"

"I love you, too, Hamish. Goodnight."

"Mmm-hmm. Nigh', Daddy." With a tiny breath and a few unintelligible murmurs, Hamish's form went limp against his father's chest and the little boy swiftly fell asleep, a tiny fist clenching and unclenching where it had landed against Sherlock's lips.

"Goodnight," the detective whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Hamish's chubby fingers. Heaving a sigh, the detective carefully stood up and turned towards the figures in the doorway. "Hello, mum," he murmured, quirking his lips up into a small half-smile as greeting.

Eloise, who was still frozen in the entryway merely stared at the small figure in her son's arms. "You love him," she whispered, eventually bring her gaze back to Sherlock.

"Yes," the detective whispered, giving a firm nod of his head. "I do. He's my son."

"Hmm," Eloise hummed, the faint traces of a smile ghosting over her thin lips. "So you do… And so he is."

Something between a small gasp and a chuckle escaped Sherlock's lips. "Thank you," he whispered, giving a small nod of his head.

Though John was still not entirely sure of how all of the Holmes family members were able to communicate without using words, the tradition still clearly held true with Sherlock and Eloise as some sort of silent apology was exchanged between them as they gazed at each other. Feeling as if he was invading on an unusually intimate moment, John awkwardly cleared his throat and hurried over to his flat mate, slowly taking Hamish's sleeping body from Sherlock. "Just… Take him to bed," he muttered, gently bouncing as he hurried into the detective's bedroom.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, though the doctor had already disappeared into his room. "Thank you, mum," he stated, and Eloise couldn't help but chuckle at the sincerity in her son's voice.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. I'm sorry, as well; I was… Out of line… To assume that you…"

"It's all right, mum. I understand…"

"No, not just for… Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes began, clutching her hands together in front of her as she took a hesitant step forward. "I am sorry. For all of it. I know what happened, and I was never there for you. And then… Sherlock, I'm just sorry. Can…"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured in response, taking a few steps forward and closing the distance between him and his mother. "I appreciate it. Really, I do. Thank you, mum." Taking a deep breath of reassurance, the detective leaned forward, awkwardly trapping his mother in a long-limped hug. "Thank you," he whispered, exhaling and smiling at the strangely familiar, yet reassuring smell of her perfume.

"I'm sorry, love," Eloise whispered, giving Sherlock a tiny pat on the back in response to his awkward hug. "And uhh… He seems like a sweet boy," she added, gently pushing him away and giving him a genuine, albeit small, smile.

"He is. He really is… If uhh… If you'd be interested, he's turning two in a couple of weeks. You'd—I mean—if you wanted to, you'd be—"

"That would be lovely. Thank you, Sherlock," Eloise interrupted, raising a hand to her son's lips. "John might take some convincing though," she chuckled half-heartedly, trying her hand at a joke.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, slightly taken aback by this new and foreign side to his mother. "Thank you."

"Of course… I'm sorry for the upset I've caused, Sherlock. But I can see you… You obviously care deeply for him."

"I do. I love him. With all my heart."

"Well… So long as you give him the childhood he deserves… And the one you never had," Eloise added softly, eyes falling to the ground as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. "You'll do well," she stated, after a moment's pause. With another quick pat to her son's shoulder, and a small half-smile, Mrs. Holmes turned on her heel and gave a silent goodbye before leaving the flat.

Sherlock stood, momentarily frozen in his spot by the moment shared between his usually cold mother. "Thank you, Mycroft," he silently thanked, running a few fingers over his lips as he chuckled to himself. Smiling, and still feeling an unusual sort of warmth dancing through his veins, the detective slowly made his way into his room, where John was seated on the edge of the bed, having just finished tucking Hamish's sleeping form under the covers.

The two exchanged a quick look as Sherlock entered, before both broke out into huge grins. "Ohh," John sighed cheerfully, after having pressed a joyful kiss to Hamish's nose. "So we're all right?"

"We're all wonderful," Sherlock murmured, gazing lovingly at his son's sweet form.

"Ohh…" Humming happily to himself, John quickly gave his flat mate a smile and a quick pat on the shoulder before hurrying out of the room, giving the father and son a moment together.

Chuckling after his flat mate, Sherlock turned his attention back to Hamish. Eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, the detective gently sat down on the bed and tenderly brushed some of the little boy's curls out of his eyes. "You precious thing," he murmured eventually, wrapping his fingers around Hamish's chubby ones and giving a gentle squeeze as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to his son's forehead. "Sleep well, Hamish… You've earned it."

Chuckling at the swell of love growing in his chest, Sherlock placed a quick kiss to Hamish's tiny fingers before gently tucking the covers around him and leaving the bed. "Sleep well, Hamish… We're all fine…"


	40. Happy Second

Sherlock was seated at his microscope, fingers anxiously twitching over the knobs and then to a pen resting on the table and then back to the knobs again. "Now, John?" he whined, pressing his face to the lens and then glancing in to look at the same slide he'd been looking at all night… And the night before.

"Nope," John replied, scanning the newspaper held in front of him.

"Why?"

"Because it's his birthday! Let the poor boy sleep in."

A pause. "Fine," Sherlock eventually huffed, returning to twirling the pen between his slender fingers as he drummed the fingertips of his other hand against the table, much to the annoyance of his flat mate.

 

 

 

 

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the sitting room, hands twitching as he clasped them together behind his back.

"I'm going to go check on him."

"No you're not," John sighed, exasperated. "Why are you so anxious?" he cried, tossing down the paper he was still reading.

"I just… It's his birthday. Second birthday. And I want it to be perfect, that's all," Sherlock mumbled, collapsing onto the couch while simultaneously unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Uhh," he sighed, running his hands over his face and through his raven curls. "Apologies."

"That's all right," John chuckled tiredly, picking up the paper again and returning to the story he'd been reading.

Mumbling in frustration to himself, Sherlock pressed his hands together and steepled them against his lips. Deciding he needed something to take his mind away from his anxiousness, the detective turned his attention to a case Lestrade had handed him a few days ago, and started running the details through his mind.

 

 

 

 

Nearly an hour later, John was preparing breakfast in the kitchen while Sherlock was lost in the confines of his mind, vigorously working to solve the case, now he'd begun. He barely noticed the gentle tapping on his leg as a tiny voice giggled, "Up now, Daddy."

"Up…" Sherlock murmured absently, brows tugging together as he was pulled from his musing. "Up, yes. Up… Up!" he cried, quickly shooting up from his position and pulling Hamish's form onto his lap. "Oh, you brilliant boy!" Sherlock laughed, pressing his lips all over his son's cheeks. "Up, of course! He went up! Oh, how could I have missed it?" the detective chuckled between kisses, grinning as his son giggled in his arms.

"No, Daddy!" the little boy gasped, snuggling against the crook of his father's neck in an attempt to escape and catch his breath.

"Sorry," Sherlock chuckled, pressing one last, tender kiss atop Hamish's head.

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy," the little boy hummed, pressing a soft kiss to his father's pale neck and smiling against the skin. "Oh! Up now, Daddy. Come, come!" he called suddenly, pulling away to tug at the collar of his father's shirt.

"Oh! Oh, Hamish, happy birthday!" Sherlock cried, suddenly remembering. Now grinning once again, the detective quickly stood and clutched Hamish to his chest, wrapping him in a tight hug. "Oh, you're so big! Two years old… My goodness," he sighed wistfully, staring out the window and quickly getting lost in his thoughts as he ran a few fingers through Hamish's silky curls.

"Mig?" the little boy asked quietly, voice muffled by his father's chest.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes!" Sherlock chuckled. Smiling fondly, he situated Hamish on his nonexistent hip and pressed a soft kiss to his son's temple. "Yes, you're a very big boy. In fact, you're practically as old as me!" he exaggerated fondly.

"Mmm!" Hamish giggled, nuzzling contently against Sherlock's shoulder as the detective made his way into the kitchen. "Morn', John!" the little boy called, much louder than was necessary, causing Sherlock to wince slightly.

"Oh! Hey, Hame! How's my birthday boy?" Grinning, the doctor hurried over to his flat mates and planted a quick kiss to Hamish's cheek. "How're you feeling?"

"Mig!" the little boy giggled, throwing his arms out and spreading them wide, nearly falling out of his father's arms in the process.

"Oof! Yes, you're very big aren't you?" Sherlock chuckled, placing a protective hand over his son's little stomach to steady him as he translated for John, who had shot him a questioning look.

"Ah, I see," the doctor chuckled, quickly returning to his cooking.

"Mmm. What does that smell like, Hamish?" Sherlock murmured as he sat down at the kitchen table, which he'd cleared and scrubbed clean a week in advance, much to the entertainment of John. The little boy thought for a moment, using the table to hoist himself into a standing position on Sherlock's thighs. "Cakes?" he guessed quietly, absentmindedly playing with the fingers his father had wrapped around his middle.

"Yep!" John chuckled, finishing with the plate he was preparing. "And… As a special birthday bonus, I've put some strawberries and syrup on the top!" Grinning at his giggling flat mate, the doctor set the plate down with a flourish and then quickly brushed his hands up and down his jeans.

Grinning and clapping his little hands together, Hamish plopped down on Sherlock's lap, and made an eager grab for the plate of pancakes.

"Ah, ah! Not so fast," the detective chuckled, quickly pushing the plate, and its incredibly messy toppings away. "Just a moment there." Smiling at the pout and glare he was receiving from his son, but ignoring the small grunt of protest, Sherlock spun Hamish around on his lap and quickly tugged off the little boy's shirt and pants, knowing they would get terribly messy during the meal. "Okay," he sighed, placing a firm hand around his son's middle as he repositioned Hamish on his lap. "Have at it."

Humming happily to himself, the little boy eagerly reached forward and started to tuck into his specially-made birthday breakfast, much to the not-so-hidden disgust of his father. "Have, Daddy," Hamish stated happily, and holding a tiny piece of strawberry coated in syrup between his chubby fingers, offered it to Sherlock.

"Mmm. Thank you, Hamish," the detective thanked theatrically, leaning his head forward to eat the food from his son's little fingers.

"Good, Daddy," the small boy hummed, giving Sherlock an approving smile and a quick pat on the shoulder.

Chuckling and smiling warmly at his little boy, the detective tightened his grip around Hamish's middle, before pressing a soft kiss to his son's temple.

 

 

 

 

By the time Hamish had finished, the little boy was, admittedly, not as filthy as John had expected, but was still quite dirty.

"Okay," Sherlock sighed, scooting away from the table to place a very happy Hamish on the floor. "Let's go take a bath, hmm? My goodness, you are absolutely filthy," he chuckled, kneeling down to wipe down his son's face and hands.

"Mmm. Go bath, Daddy?" Hamish giggled softly once the detective was done, taking a hold of his father's hand and pressing it to his cheek.

"Love to," Sherlock murmured, brushing his fingertips behind his son's tiny ear.

"Good!" With a wide grin, Hamish tugged his father out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

"All right, all right. Just a moment… Silly boy," the detective murmured fondly, quickly unbuttoning his suit jacket and tossing the fabric, as well as his shirt, away, which sent Hamish into a fit of giggles. "Oh, you think that's funny hmm?" Sherlock asked, feigning seriousness.

"'Es!" the little boy laughed, bashfully pressing a few fingers to his mouth.

"Well… Then I see I've got no choice," Sherlock murmured seriously, raising an eyebrow at his giggling son. Forcing a straight face, the detective knelt down in front of Hamish and placed both of his hands on either side of the little boy's arms.

"What do, Daddy?" Hamish asked, suddenly very serious as he stared earnestly into his father's ever-changing grey eyes.

"I'm afraid… I've got no choice… But…" Lowering his eyebrow, Sherlock suddenly broke into a wide grin. "Give you a bath of kisses!" he laughed suddenly, reaching forward to pepper Hamish's little face with several soft pecks. "That's what you get for laughing at me!" he scolded playfully, tugging the little boy's nappy off before placing him in the tub as he started the water running.

"Silly, Daddy!" Hamish giggled, plopping down on the floor of the tub as it began to fill with water.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock murmured fondly, crouching down until he was face-to-face with the little boy before draping his arms over the edge of tub.

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed. Smiling, the little boy used Sherlock's arms to pull himself into a standing position, so their faces were just inches apart. "Silly, Daddy," he whispered happily, placing a tiny hand to the corner of his father's lips.

"Mmm," the detective hummed, pressing a soft kiss to his son's chubby fingers. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I am a bit silly, aren't I?"

"'Es," Hamish giggled leaning forward to place an equally soft kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Good, Daddy," he stated contently, giving a tiny nod of his head before sitting down in the now-full tub, murmuring to himself as he started to play with the water.

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock quickly turned the water off and grabbed a bottle of bubbles. "Here we are," he chuckled, dumping a good portion of the sweet-smelling liquid in.

"Bubblies!" Hamish cried excitedly, hurrying over to the other end of the tub to mix up the solution.

Sherlock watched with warm eyes as the little boy was quickly swamped by a large pile of bubbles, squealing happily as he flew his tiny hands through the clouds of foam. "Come, Daddy," Hamish hummed, crawling to the other end of the tub to escape the pile of bubbles. Smiling, Sherlock quickly scooted down to the other end, keeping his arms in the tub and waited patiently for whatever his son was wanting to show him.

"Hap bif'hay, Daddy," the little boy said quietly, smiling as he held out a little pile of bubbles.

"It's not my birthday," Sherlock chuckled, reaching forward to take the foam in his fingers. "It's yours," he whispered, plopping the little pile atop his son's nose.

"Oh," Hamish giggled, scooping up another handful of bubbles. "Hat?"

"I would love one."

"'Kay. Hap bif'hay," the little boy whispered, standing up. With complete seriousness, Hamish transferred the little pile from both of his hands to just one. "Mmm," he hummed, deep green eyes scanning over Sherlock's face. The detective watched with soft eyes, waiting patiently as Hamish started to murmur to himself. "What do you need, love?" he asked quietly.

In response, the little boy gave a tiny shake of his head as a sudden, tiny smile danced over his lips. Remembering the task at hand, Hamish reached up, tangling a small fist in his father's curls. Understanding, Sherlock bowed his head to allow his son better access.

With a small smile, Hamish placed the little pile of bubbles atop the detective's head before giving a small, triumphant nod of his head. "Hat," he stated cheerfully, beaming at his father.

"Very good," Sherlock praised, planting a quick kiss to Hamish's temple. "Thank you," he chuckled fondly. "It's lovely."

"Hame one, Daddy?"

"Sure, I can make you one." Smiling, the detective rose so he was balancing on the balls of his feet, reached down to the other end of the tub, and grabbed a small handful of the suds. "One hat for the birthday boy," he chuckled, plopping the pile on top of Hamish's soapy curls.

"Ta, Daddy," the little boy giggled, giving his father a wide grin before quickly returning his attention to the water and bubbles.

 

 

 

 

Eventually, after having been soaped up and thoroughly washed of the syrup by Sherlock, Hamish had decided the water was getting too cold. Abandoning the toy boat he'd been playing with, the little boy pulled himself up with a quiet grunt. "Out, Daddy?" he called to the detective, who was busy getting a towel from under the sink.

"Hmm? Oh, of course. Sorry. Ahh... Here we are. Nice and warm, hmm?" Sherlock murmured contently, pulling his son's small body from the tub and wrapping it safely in a towel as the little boy shivered in his arms. The detective placed a warm hand to the exposed skin of Hamish's back as he leaned forward to drain the tub.

Humming contently to himself, Hamish nestled himself further into the warmth of the blanket. "Ta, Daddy," he whispered, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder and settling comfortably into the detective's arms as they left the bathroom.

"You're most certainly welcome," Sherlock chuckled softly, rubbing a few fingers up and down his son's bare, slightly moist back. "Mmm," the detective hummed as he slowly inhaled the sweet scent of Hamish's wet hair. "Lovely."

"What be, Daddy?" the little boy asked faintly, lulled by the gentle pacing of Sherlock.

"You are," the detective murmured, sitting down on the bed. "My beautiful two-year-old birthday boy," he chuckled, brushing some of the little boy's wet hair out of his eyes. "You're positively lovely."

"Mmm," Hamish giggled, sliding down Sherlock's torso to press his smaller form against the detective's stomach. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered against his father's bare skin.

"Hmm. I love you, too, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, splaying his fingers over his son's tiny back as he hugged him close. "Happy birthday," he spoke into the little boy's curls. "Now! Come along, then! We must get ready; we've got a big day ahead of us, hmm?"

Hamish giggled, laughing into the skin of his father's stomach. "'Kay, Daddy."

Grinning warmly, Sherlock stood and placed the little boy, still wrapped in a towel, on the bed. Moving swiftly, the detective found his discarded button-up and suit jacket, and pulled them on with fervor, much to the delight of his son. Chuckling, Sherlock rummaged through Hamish's clothes and eventually pulled out a tiny pair of jeans. Quickly grabbing a nappy, he hurried back over to the bed, where Hamish was distractedly playing with his own fingers.

"Ohh. Up we go," he said, gently pulling the little boy's body from the towel.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Still seemingly entranced with his own fingers, Hamish stood, sticking his bottom lip out as he traced his palm, while he allowed Sherlock to dry him down and put on a nappy.

"Ahh. Here we are," the detective sighed dramatically, tugging the little jeans onto his son's legs. "Hamish? Come pick a shirt, hmm?"

"Baa-hmm... Oh. What, Daddy?"

"I need you to come pick a shirt," Sherlock chuckled fondly, placing the half-dressed little boy on the ground.

"Oh. 'Kay!" Giving a tiny shake of his head, Hamish quickly forgot the fascination with his hands and toddled over to the closet, where all of her shirts were now hanging with Sherlock's. (The little boy had insisted that, if he was going to be a big boy, his shirts needed to be hanging with his father's, seeing as the detective was a "big boy.")

"Which would you like?" Sherlock chuckled, hoisting Hamish up and onto his hip, so as to give him a better view of the clothes.

Opening his mouth slightly as he thought, the little boy turned, glancing at Sherlock's attire (signature suit with his purple shirt), before turning his attention back to the closet. "'Es," he stated firmly, falling forward to take ahold of the little purple button-up that was so alike to his father's.

"Excellent." Smiling, Sherlock pulled the tiny shirt from its hanger and set Hamish on the ground. "There you are," he said, handing the fabric to his son's outstretched hand.

"Ta, Daddy." Grunting and muttering slightly to himself, Hamish almost managed to get the shirt on entirely by himself, but ended up getting his second arm stuck in the hole just as he pushed the first one through. "Daddy?" he huffed with a small frown tugging down his sweet features. "Help 'ease."

"Of course." Laughing softly, Sherlock knelt down and gently guided Hamish's hand through the hole. "There you are. Clean and dressed! Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm! Go, Daddy!" Grinning, now that he was situated, the little boy started to make a dash for the closed door.

"Oh! Ah, ah! Wait, just a moment, I almost forgot!" Sherlock laughed, quickly wrapping his slender fingers around Hamish's arm and tugging him back towards the bed. "I have a quick present for you!" he said excitedly, beaming as he plopped the little boy down on the bed.

"Tres'tent?" Hamish gasped, scooting back towards the pillows, and the many, many stuffed animals he and Sherlock had placed there the night before.

"Mmm-hmm!" Grinning, the detective hurried over to his dresser and rummaged around in the sock drawer until he pulled out a wrapped gift. "Ah. Here we are." Practically vibrating with excitement, he hurried back over the bed where Hamish was now buried in a ridiculously huge pile of stuffed animals (which he knew would only grow in quantity today), and sat down on the duvet. "Hmm. I seem to have lost my son," he murmured, a coy smile spreading over his lips as he tucked the present behind him. "Tell me Mr. Turtle," Sherlock chuckled, ignoring the soft giggles coming from under the pile of pillows and animals. "Have you seen my son, Hamish? He's about this tall, has curly dark brown hair, and impossibly green eyes. You haven't seen him? Hmm... How about you, Peter? No? Well then..." A huff. "I suppose I'll just have to let John open his present, then."

"No, Daddy!" came a sudden, muffled cry. "Hame here!" the little boy called, emerging from the pile of animals.

"Ah! There you are! I was beginning to think you'd disappeared!" Sherlock cried in mock surprise, before grinning warmly as his son crawled towards him. "Here you go," he chuckled, pulling the gift out from behind him and offering it to Hamish. "Open it."

"Oh... Squish, Daddy," the little boy murmured, crawling into his father's lap and leaning back against Sherlock's stomach as he carefully moved the gift around in his chubby fingers.

"Very good observation, Hamish," the detective praised quietly, smiling as he felt Hamish place the present on his shin and heard the gentle tearing of paper.

Concentrating very hard on not ripping the paper, Hamish carefully tore open the wrapping to reveal the present underneath. Sherlock knew his son had finished when he heard a tiny gasp and felt the small weight lift from his leg. "Bunny!" Hamish gasped, pulling the stuffed animal to his chest as he turned in his father's lap to stare up with pure joy at Sherlock. "Like 'Ter!"

"Yes, she's just like Peter, isn't she? I thought he might have been getting lonely. So I got him a friend. Do... You like it?" the detective asked carefully, not entirely sure if the expression on his son's face was one of happiness or mild horror.

"Hame 'ove bunny, Daddy," Hamish whispered, releasing his hold on the animal to place a tiny hand to his father's cheek. "Like lot. Ta, Daddy. 'Ove!" Grinning, the little boy launced himself forward, trapping Sherlock's face in a tight hug.

"Oh! Oh, thank you, Hamish," the detective whispered in relief, placing a hand on his son's smaller back, returning the hug. "I'm glad you like it, love. Now! Come along. John's waiting outside the door, about to come in and get on me for keeping you so long," he added, whispering in Hamish's ear so the doctor wouldn't hear him.

"Mmm," the little boy giggled, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's cheek to stifle the laugh. "'Kay, Daddy. Oh! Nana come?" he asked, sliding from the detective's lap and onto the floor.

"Yes! In fact, I think she's in the kitchen. Smell that? John's not capable of making food that smells that's edible, let alone that smells as good as that. Conclusion: It could only be Mrs. Hudson. Oh. Hello, John. Didn't know you were there," Sherlock said seriously, placing a hand to Hamish's back, who was grinning playfully to himself as he stared up between the two adults.

"Yeah. Uh-huh," John scoffed, rolling his eyes as his flat mate raised an eyebrow at him. "Come along, Hamish! Mrs. Hudson's here, and she's quite anxious to see you!" Shooting his flat mate one last glare, the doctor held out his hand for Hamish nodding towards the kitchen entrance.

"Told you," Sherlock whispered, winking playfully at his son, once John had turned and was beginning to lead the little boy into the kitchen. The detective could already hear Mrs. Hudson's excited chattering, a few, 'Oh, you lovely darling!'s floating through into the hallway. Smiling to himself, Sherlock smoothed down the front of his suit and hurried in after his flat mate and son.

 

 

 

 

Eventually, after convincing Hamish to wait to open his presents until people started arriving, the little boy was practically bouncing out of his skin by the time Lestrade arrived.

"Unk Greg!" Hamish cried excitedly, almost tripping over his own feet as he made a dash for the Inspector.

"Oh! Hey there, bud!" Lestrade laughed, bending down to gentle ruffle the small boy's hair as Hamish wrapped his arms around his leg. It had been nearly a month since the little boy had really seen Lestrade, Molly, or his Uncle Mycroft, due to the busyness of both John and Sherlock. As such, seeing his family members today, after such a long break, was even more of a treat and surprise.

"Mmm. Miss you, Unk' Greg," Hamish whispered into the Inspector's thigh.

"I missed you, too, bud," Lestrade chuckled, sharing a smile with John and a quick nod with Sherlock, who was too busy watching Hamish to really even notice or acknowledge his presence.

"Open tres'tents?" the little boy asked, hurrying back over to the pile of presents resting by the couch.

"Of course," Sherlock chuckled, sliding down to the floor and pulling out his phone, so as to film Hamish opening his gifts. "Go ahead," he encouraged lightheartedly, clicking record on the screen.

Grinning and humming to himself, Hamish made an eager grab for the presents, picking up a tiny one from the top of the large pile and setting it on his chubby, extended legs. The adults all shared a quick smile as they settled into different spots around the flat, watching the little boy behind them with a smile on all of their lips.

 

 

 

 

By the time Hamish had gotten halfway through the gifts, the little boy had received a total of three stuffed animals, seven books (one of which he had insisted Sherlock read to him then and there) and about twelve different toys ranging from a set of tools with faces on them that spoke (which received a royal eye roll from Sherlock), to a twenty-piece puzzle set, matching body parts to their names (which the detective highly approved of).

It was just about this time, when Sherlock was urging John to see the academic value of such a puzzle (which he, of course, had bought), when Molly showed up, baby Rose in tow, followed closely by Mary, who quickly settled herself next to John.

"Molly!" Hamish cried as soon as the pathologist cleared the landing and he saw the baby carrier in her hand. Instantly forgetting all of the gifts (and too distracted to notice Mary), the little boy toddled as fast as he could to the stairs, desperately trying to peer over the side of the baby carriage.

"He'o baby Rose!" he whispered loudly, even though the baby wide wide awake.

"Hello, love," Molly chuckled fondly, gazing between her baby and Hamish.

"Very good manners, Hamish," Sherlock praised from where he was seated, quickly gathering up the wrapping paper his son had forbidden him from crinkling and tossing it into a garbage bag.

"Rose tres'tent at Hame?" Hamish asked suddenly, still staring in awe at the baby girl, who was gurgling happily up at him, stretching her little limbs towards him.

"Oh. No, sweetie. I'm sorry, darling, but I'm afraid you can't have Rose as a present for your birthday; it doesn't work like that," Molly chuckled lightly, giving the little boy a sad smile as the other adults chuckled at his request.

"Oh. 'Kay, Molly," Hamish hummed, still content to be this close to Rose.

His chuckle rumbling throughout the flat, Sherlock shoved himself into a standing position and strode over to Molly and Hamish, giving the pathologist an apologetic smile, as Hamish was blocking her entrance to the flat. "Come along, Hamish. Let's allow Aunt Molly to actually enter the flat before we crowd her, hmm?"

"Oh. 'Kay," the little boy hummed, smiling as he was gently pulled away by Sherlock's slender fingers on his shoulders, though he stared contently after Rose and her carrier as Molly sat down on the couch. "Go see now, Daddy?"

"If it's all right with Aunt Molly," the detective chuckled softly, giving him a light pat on the back as he glanced at Molly.

"That's all right. You can come over, Hamish," the pathologist laughed, pulling Rose out of the seat and settling her safely on her lap as she beckoned to the little boy.

"Go on," Sherlock urged, giving Hamish a small push.

Sighing in happiness, the small boy made a quick dash for the sofa and crawled up with help from Lestrade, before settling himself between the two adults with a small huff. "He'o baby Rose," he sighed, a wide grin brightening his features once again as he caught sight of the little girl. "Can?" the little boy asked, reaching towards Rose's hand and giving Molly a questioning look.

"Of course, love. Go ahead."

With a happy exhale of breath, Hamish scooted himself closer to the pathologist, nestling himself close to her thigh before reaching forward and taking Rose's tiny hand in his own. "He'o Rose. Hame 'ove," he stated happily, gently shaking the small girl's hand as he raised his eyebrows expectantly. After nothing happened, he slowly shook her hand again. "She no say back," he frowned, glancing to Sherlock who was watching the scene, hands in his pockets, with a fond look in his eyes.

"Well no, Hamish," the detective chuckled, smiling sadly at the utterly disappointed look that momentarily crossed his son's features. "She's not old enough to form words yet; therefore she cannot respond back. But look," he smiled, nodding to Rose who was desperately trying to grab Hamish's face as she gurgled happily. "She's still communicating. See? She likes you."

"Oh. 'Kay!" the little boy stated, all trepidation forgotten as he stood up on the sofa. "Good, Rose. Daddy say no talk. But it 'kay; Hame like."

All of the adults chuckled to themselves in unison, gazing fondly as Hamish continued to babble unintelligibly to Rose, who merely stared at him in sheer amazement, a tiny smile constantly playing over her small lips as she listened intently, her tiny hand wrapped safely in the little boy's.

 

 

 

 

The day went by with lots of chatter, and munching on Mrs. Hudson's food, though there was no more opening of presents, as Hamish was either preoccupied with Rose, or busy playing with the toys he'd already opened. And, no matter how much Sherlock and John insisted, the little boy had no more interest in opening the rest of his pile of presents, or the many bags from Greg, Molly and Mary.

Eventually, Mycroft appeared with only a single gift in his clutches, which, after much coercion, Hamish opened. The little boy was absolutely delighted to have gotten his very own little tie, which he then insisted be worn immediately, much to the (secret) excitement of his uncle.

"Here, Daddy! On 'ease?"

"Oh, if I must," the detective grumbled, though he couldn't help but smile as he took the tiny tie from his son's small outstretched hand and knelt down on one knee. "Here we go," he chuckled, clipping the tie to Hamish's purple shirt. "Positively dapper!"

"Mmm," the little boy giggled, taking a step forward to wrap his little arms around Sherlock's neck. "Ta, Daddy."

"You're very welcome, Hamish. Why don't you go thank Uncle Mycroft, hmm?" the detective murmured, pressing a quick kiss to Hamish's temple. "Go on."

Grinning and clutching the small tie in his fingers, the little boy released his hold on Sherlock's neck and hurried over to Mycroft, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway. "Up 'ease?"

"Certainly," the elder Holmes chuckled, propping his umbrella against the wall as he bent down to pick Hamish up. "Ohh. My goodness, you're getting big, aren't you?" he chuckled fondly, pulling his nephew onto his hip.

"Mmm. Ta, Unk' My. Like tie!" Hamish murmured cheerfully, giving his uncle a tight hug and snuggling close to his neck as he grabbed a fistful of the government official's tie in his own little hand. "'Ove, My."

"I love you, too, Hamish," Mycroft murmured, sharing a quick smile with his brother, which was returned with a playful quirk of the eyebrow.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed, suddenly very tired and feeling the effects of having missed both of the naps he would have taken. Yawning into his uncle's shoulder, the little boy snuggled closer, keeping a firm grip around Mycroft's tie as his eyes started to droop shut.

"Oh. I think someone's tired," Mycroft chuckled, sharing a quick glance with Sherlock, as he seemed unsure of what to do.

"Falling asleep, are we?" the detective chuckled, moving over and placing a tender hand to Hamish's back, which caused the little boy's eyes to quickly fly open before fluttering almost closed again as he yawned.

"Yes, well… Ahem. Why don't you take him, brother?" Mycroft suggested, somewhat awkwardly, now quite unsure of what to do that Hamish was almost asleep on him, with a tight grip on his tie.

"Come here, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, exchanging a knowing look with his brother before gently prying the little boy's fingers away from Mycroft's tie and then pulling him into his arms.

"Wha' do, Da'ey?" Hamish mumbled tiredly, fighting desperately to keep his eyes open.

"Shh. You're going to go have a quick sleep, hmm?"

"No," the little boy protested feebly, reaching up blindly to press his small hand against his father's lips. "Hame 'kay."

"No you're not," the detective chuckled fondly, pursing his lips against Hamish's chubby fingers, giving them a soft kiss. "You're tired, Hamish. It's all right, we'll just go take a quick nap, hmm?"

"No, Daddy," the little boy tried again, giving a firm shake of his head in an effort to wake himself up.

"Well, why ever not?" Sherlock laughed, quickly excusing himself and hurrying into the bedroom. "You're tired."

"No. Hame not."

"Yes. You are are."

"Not."

"Are," the detective countered, raising an eyebrow at Hamish as he set the little boy on the bed. "Why are you attempting to argue?" he asked fondly, gently brushing some of his son's curls out of his eyes as he tried to tuck him under the duvet.

"Hame not want 'eave," the little boy huffed, frowning as Sherlock attempted to place him under the covers. With a quick exhale of breath and a tiny grunt, Hamish shoved the duvet away and quickly crawled over to where his father was standing. "Hame need stay. Bif'hay," he stated, using Sherlock's lapel to pull himself into a standing position.

"Ah, I see," the detective murmured, placing a hand on Hamish's back to keep him steady, as he was wobbling slightly. "You need to stay out there with the guests, hmm? Because it's your birthday, right?"

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy sighed in relief, smiling as attempted to crawl into Sherlock's arms. "Oof!" he grunted, as his head gently bounced off of the detective's shoulder when he made no move to hold him up.

"Now, now," Sherlock chuckled, holding Hamish's body to his chest with one hand as he crawled into the bed, managing to tuck them both under the covers, which earned him a very upset glare. "Everyone is still going to be here when you wake up, I promise. I'll make sure of it, all right? You can rest."

Eyes fluttering shut and then open again as he was wrapped safely in his father's arms and the covers, the frown quickly fell from Hamish's lips to be replaced by a calm smile. "Stay, Daddy? Not bad?"

"No, you're not bad at all. Everyone will understand and will still be here when you wake up, hmm?"

"Oh. 'Kay," the little boy yawned, tangling a tiny fist in his father's button-up.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, carding a few fingers through his son's silky hair in a comforting rhythm.

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Have 'Ter?"

"Of course you can have Peter. Just a moment." Moving carefully so as not to jostle Hamish too much, Sherlock stretched a lanky arm over the little boy's small body and grabbed the stuffed animal. "Here we are. And would you like Peter's friend you just got today?"

"Mmm-hmm 'ease."

"Right." Keeping Peter in his fingers, the detective quickly found the new stuffed bunny rabbit and then slotted the animals between their bodies. "There we are…"

"Mmm. Ta, Daddy," Hamish yawned, clutching the new rabbit close.

Sherlock smiled. "Does she have a name?"

"'Es," the little boy whispered, forcing his eyes open to smile faintly at his father.

"Do tell."

Suddenly very bashful, Hamish clutched the animal to his tiny chest and pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder.

"What's her name?" the detective chuckled playfully, urging his son to look at him.

Cheeks flushing a light pink, the little boy carefully peered at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "Molly," he admitted quietly, instantly taking cover in his father's shoulder as the blush deepened.

"Ahh," the detective drawled softly, pretending not to notice his son's obvious embarrassment. "Well… I think Molly is an absolutely lovely name," he tried, returning Hamish's cautious gaze out of the corner of his eye.

"Like?"

"Mmm. Very much so. And I think Peter is very lucky to have Miss Molly there as his friend," Sherlock murmured, quirking his lips and an eyebrow up at the blushing little boy. "No need to be embarrassed, love," he whispered lovingly, eyes crinkling at the corners as gave Hamish a warm smile. "Molly is a lovely name."

Cheeks slowly returning to normal, the little boy hugged the new toy closer. With a content little smile gracing his sweet features, Hamish quickly settled comfortably into Sherlock's reassuring hold. "Nigh', Daddy," he whispered, barely managing to stay awake as the detective started to trace a pattern on his back with a few fingertips.

"Sleep well, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, holding his breath as he waited for the little boy to fall asleep.

"Mmm." And with a soft huff of breath, Hamish quickly fell asleep, Molly clutched close to his tiny chest.

Sherlock waited silently, releasing the breath he'd been holding as he felt his son's small form go limp against his own. "There we are," he whispered, almost silently. In one swift, fluid movement, the detective quickly slid out from under Hamish's body, simultaneously tucking him under the covers while he straightened. Smirking proudly to himself that he hadn't even jostled the little boy, Sherlock carefully re-buttoned the front of his suit, as it had become undone, and smoothed down the fabric before silently exiting the bedroom.

"Is he down?" John asked, as his flat mate returned into the sitting room.

"Yes. Poor thing's exhausted."

"He's such a darling," Mary chimed in, sharing a quick smile with her fiancé.

"Yes, I… Suppose he is," Sherlock murmured, clasping his hands behind his back as he gave Mary a warm smile. "Oh. Mycroft?" he asked suddenly. Lips parted as he prepared to speak, the detective made his way over to his brother. "Is it arranged?"

"Well," the government official sighed, raising a hand to stop the onslaught of verbal abuse he knew was coming his way. "Now, now, Sherlock. Calm down. I did the best I could. I can't get you in today, but I've gotten you tomorrow, all right?"

Sherlock, whose mouth was hanging open, the disagreement he had been poised to emit stopping in his mouth. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"How soon?"

"Anytime you request."

"…Yes, I suppose that will be fine. Thank you," the detective muttered eventually, suppressing an eye roll.

"Wait, wait, what are we doing?" John asked suddenly, expressing the confusion everyone else in the room was feeling.

"Hmm? Oh. A birthday gift… For Hamish. Which was supposed to be given today," he added coldly, sending a quick glare in his brother's direction.

"Well, what the bloody hell is the gift, and when were you planning on telling me?" the doctor accused, frowning at his flat mate.

"You'll find out… Tomorrow, apparently," Sherlock hinted slyly. And then, without another word and ignoring the glares and mutters he was receiving from John, the detective sat down at the small table in the crowded sitting room and opened John's laptop, quickly beginning to clack away at the keys, not even noticing the many confused stares from the other guests.

 

 

 

Eventually, Molly decided it was time she and little Rose head home. Seeing as Hamish was still sleeping, and would probably never forgive him if he allowed Molly and Rose to leave without a proper goodbye, Sherlock left the table he'd been seated at and silently slipped into his bedroom, where the little boy was resting soundly, tangled in the bedsheets and the large pile of stuffed animals.

"Hamish?" he asked softly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as he pulled away a few toys from his son's resting body. "Hamish, Molly needs to leave now. Would you like to say goodbye?"

"What?" the little boy asked as he awoke with a start and small shudder, quickly coming to consciousness at the mention of Moly and Rose. "Molly an' Baby Rose 'eave?"

"Yes, they're about to leave. Would you like to go say bye?"

"Mmm-hmm." Giving a tired nod of his head, Hamish released the hold he still had around the stuffed rabbit and lifted an arm up in expectation. "'Kay Daddy. Take up," he stated.

Scoffing lightheartedly at his son's request, Sherlock quirked an amused eyebrow, but obliged, pulling the little boy into his arms and bouncing slightly in an effort to keep Hamish awake long enough to say goodbye.

"Ahh. Here we are," the detective sighed quietly as he entered the sitting room to find Molly, baby carriage in hand and Lestrade, holding Rose's diaper bag in hand. "Ah. So I see you're leaving as well?"

"Yeah, I uhh… Got paperwork and stuff to do. You know how it is."

"Of course," Sherlock drawled suspiciously, glancing between Molly and Greg. "Hamish? It would appear Uncle Lestrade is leaving as well. Why don't you say goodbye?"

"Bye, bye Unk' Greg," Hamish whispered, blinking slowly as he gazed at the Inspector from where his head was resting on top of Sherlock's shoulder. With a tiny smile, the little boy raised a single hand and gave it a wave.

"Bye, sport," Lestrade chuckled, reaching forward with his free hand. Smiling warmly, the Inspector wrapped his fingers around the tiny boy's and gave his arm a tiny shake. "See you later, all right? Happy birthday."

"Mmm. Ba' bye, Molly an' Baby Rose," Hamish whispered, transferring his attention to the pathologist.

"Goodbye, darling. Happy birthday, love. You're simply too sweet," Molly chuckled, giving the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. In response, Hamish quickly pressed his head into Sherlock's neck, and snuggled himself closer, giggling contently to himself.

"Thank you, Molly," the detective thanked, sharing a warm smile with the pathologist before giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. "Be safe, you two."

"Always are, Sherlock."

"Yes."

 

 

 

Eventually, Molly and Lestrade (finally) made their way out, Mycroft left, and Sherlock managed to put Hamish back down, deciding he'd just let the little boy sleep, as he was clearly zonkered out. The detective slowly strode back into the sitting room, where Mary and John were seated.

"What's wrong?" John asked immediately, sensing his friend's tense form.

Pretending that he didn't know perfectly well what John was talking about, Sherlock quickly plopped down in his chair and crossed his legs as he gazed evenly at his flat mate. "I just do not understand the point of tools with faces on them, that's all. Completely illogical. No tools have faces on them. Nor can they talk!" he lied, pressing his fingers to his lips as he stared out the window, attempting to avoid the subject further.

"No. Tell me what's wrong."

Daring a quick glance towards Mary, Sherlock carefully met his friend's gaze. "Uh, fine!" he groaned, crossing his fingers and placing them on his knee. "My mother had said she would come today. I suppose I'm just… Disappointed, is all," he mumbled, eyes quickly flitting to Mary, who was smiling sadly at him.

"Oh," John sighed, now feeling suddenly guilty. "I see… I'm sorry."

"Eh, that's all right. Hamish didn't know, anyway, so there's no harm done."

"Well… That's a theory," John said skeptically, raising a warning eyebrow at his friend. "Are you all righ—"

"Perfectly," Sherlock answered, a little too quickly.

"Yes. Right… Well we're going to be off then—"

"We?" Sherlock gaped, staring accusing at John as the doctor stood and started to put his coat on.

"Yes. We. Mary and I. We're going home… To our flat."

"Our flat? Wh—when did that happen—? Our flat?"

"Sherlock, we've talked about this. I'm moving in with Mary… Slowly, so the transition will be easier for Hamish…? We've got our own flat—bloody hell, Sherlock, we've had this conversation!"

"Have we?"

"Yes!"

"Oh… Well… But what about—"

"Don't worry, I'll be back in plenty of time for whatever the surprise gift is tomorrow. Not to worry."

"…Fine. Enjoy your… Evening together."

"Yes. We will," John huffed, taking ahold of Mary's hand. "I'll be back before he wakes up. Promise."

"Yes, fine, good," Sherlock mumbled, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.

"…Right, then. Bye."

"Mmm."

Smiling in an almost annoyed fashion at his friend, John gave an unbelieving shake of his head, before quickly exiting the flat, hand in hand with Mary.

Ignoring the weird nagging sensation at the pit of stomach as he listened to the absolutely silent flat, Sherlock uncrossed is legs and leaned back in his chair, resting his head against the back, deciding he would try his hand at getting some sleep.

 

 

 

45 minutes later, Sherlock was very much wide awake, and quite frustrated by the fact that he had not fallen asleep. "Too. Bloody. Quiet," he huffed, as he hopped out of the chair, practically vibrating with his irritation at the silence of the flat. "Fine, fine."

Knowing he would not be getting in sleep in the sitting room, the detective unbuttoned his suit jacket and marched into the kitchen. One of the chairs in hand, Sherlock silently slipped into his bedroom, where Hamish was sound asleep and set the chair down, already feeling better with the sound of his son's steady breaths filling the room and breaking the silence.

Waiting a moment, the detective carefully sat down on the bed, making sure not to wake Hamish in the process and took a moment to just stare at the little boy.

"A year," he murmured softly, gently brushing the back of his knuckles over Hamish's forehead and over his faint eyebrow. "It's hard to imagine life without you, Hamish… Two years old… Mmm. You're growing up so fast," he whispered, a bittersweet pang settling in his stomach as he stroked his fingers through his son's curls. "So fast… Happy birthday, Hamish. You precious thing." Smiling in spite of the melancholy feeling cooling uncomfortably in his veins, Sherlock bent forward ever so slowly and placed a tender kiss to the corner of his son's lips. "I love you, Hamish," he whispered against the smooth skin of the little boy's warm cheek. "With all my heart. Happy birthday." Smiling, Sherlock took a deep breath, and carded his fingers through Hamish's silky hair once more before pulling away and plopping down in the chair he'd brought in. Still smiling, the detective listened to the sweet, reassuring sound of his son's deep breaths, falling asleep as Hamish sighed contently in his sleep, father and son's chest rising and falling in tandem as they slept.


	41. The Birthday Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So sorry for the wait; been suffering with a bit of writer's block on this chapter, so it's taken me awhile to figure out where I wanted to go. It was most unpleasant, and as such I seriously plan on not going through it again! =) And, in an effort to compensate, I already have most of the next chapter written up, so hopefully that'll be up very soon. Once again, so sorry my brain has been on shut-down! School just started back up for me and I've had an absolutely ridiculous amount of homework, which, admittedly, is a pretty poor excuse. So, so sorry for the delay, it's been absolutely atrocious of me! I really appreciate all who are still with this, and I hope my delay hasn't put you off too much! =/ And I promise, updating will be back on schedule! I'm finally over my sickness (as of two days ago!) and am ready for school (well… nah, not really). =D Thanks guys! I really, honestly and truly do appreciate all who review, give kudos and follow, no matter how many times I say it. It's you all who give me encouragement, so thank you very, very much! Love you!

"Hello, guys! I told you I'd be back before you left!"John called as he unlocked the door to 221B. Hurrying up the stairs, the doctor entered the small flat. Frowning as he noticed the flat was silent and empty, John tucked his keys away into his pockets and quickly poked his head into the kitchen. "Mmm," he hummed confusedly as he found the room to be empty, as well. Treading softly, John carefully let himself into Sherlock's room, squinting as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. "Ah," murmured fondly to himself at the scene in front, a small smile slowly creeping over his lips.

Sherlock was sitting in a kitchen chair, though his head was resting on his crossed arms, on top of the bed. "Good morning, Hame," the doctor whispered, giving a small wave of his fingers to his little flat mate, who had both of his hands tangled in Sherlock's raven hair and was gently playing with the curls.

"Morn', John," Hamish whispered back, just as quietly, giving the doctor a content little smile before falling into a fit of silent giggles as some of his father's curls tickled his bare stomach and legs.

"Morning… Where's you're clothes, little man?"

"Off!" the small boy declared proudly, before gesturing behind him to the pile of discarded fabric. "Not like. Get hot."

"Ah, right, right," John chuckled softly, smiling at Hamish. "What are you doing there, hmm?"

"Play Daddy's hair. Bat'mu'ful, John. An' soft," the little boy whispered, giving his father's form a warm smile as he absently twirled a lock of hair through his tiny fingers.

"Ah, you think so, hmm?"

"Mmm-hmm. Like Hame hair."

"Yes, Daddy's hair is like your hair, isn't it?" John chuckled, gazing fondly at the scene before him. "Is Daddy awake yet?"

"Yes," came the deep, rumbling voice of Sherlock, causing John to nearly jump. "Daddy's been up for quite some time, hasn't he?" the detective drawled, though John could hear the smile in his voice.

"Oh. Up, Daddy?" Hamish whispered worriedly, fingers stilling in the detective's raven curls. "Hame wake?" he worried, bending down to quickly gaze at his father's turned face.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed lazily, giving his son a sleepy smile. "No, you didn't," he whispered in a reassuring tone. With a soft huff of breath, and a groan, the detective mustered enough strength to stretch forward and press a tender kiss to Hamish's cheek, so close in proximity to his own. "You didn't wake me," he chuckled deeply as he pulled away to rest his head back on his forearms again, allowing his eyes to slide shut.

"Oh… 'Kay," the little boy replied skeptically, absentmindedly tugging at his father's curls as he merely continued to inspect Sherlock's face.

Sensing that his son was still consternating whether he was all right or not, the detective gently chuckled to himself before opening his eyes once again. "And that was lovely, by the way; please do continue," he rumbled, gesturing upwards with his eyes.

"Like?"

"Mmm, very much so," Sherlock reassured fondly, closing his eyes once again as a way to encourage Hamish to keep going. The detective smiled as he felt his son's hair relax once again in his hair and heard the little boy's unintelligible whispers to himself.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered, now happy once again, as he moved away from his position, just inches from Sherlock's face and sat back up once again.

"Not. A word, John," Sherlock enunciated, already sensing the playful tease poised on his flat mate's tongue. "He enjoys it."

"As do you," the doctor mouthed, quirking his lips up at Sherlock.

"Mmm," the detective merely hummed in reply, closing his eyes and ignoring his friend's smirk as Hamish continued to card tiny fingers through his curls.

"I'll make some breakfast, then," John chuckled light-heartedly, sending Hamish a wink before slipping out of the room.

"Cereal. Dull."

"What, Daddy?" Hamish hummed, still quite content with the situation.

"John. He's making cereal for breakfast. How incredibly dull," Sherlock explained, voice muffled as he spoke into his arms.

"What is, Daddy?"

"Dull… Means boring. Uneventful. Insufferable," the detective added, scowling into his skin.

"Oh. Not nice, Daddy," Hamish scolded. Frowning, the little boy pulled his fingers from Sherlock's hair and moved himself until he was lying on his belly, face to face with the detective, and almost in the exact same position, with his smaller head resting on his crossed, little arms. "Not nice."

"What isn't?" Sherlock murmured fondly, steel eyes scanning his son's face.

"Daddy say John dull. Not nice," Hamish scolded again, scowling at his father.

"Ah, I see. You're right; I suppose that wasn't very nice of me, was it?"

"No. Not, Daddy."

Chuckling lovingly, Sherlock disentangled an arm so he could stroke a few fingers up and down Hamish's temple. His striking eyes gracefully swept over his son's face, taking in the little boy's perfect features. Sherlock had discovered that he found it incredibly fascinating to watch Hamish think and work through problems. He enjoyed the way his son's faint eyebrows would tug together, and how his bottom lip would jut out just slightly.

A warm smile on his lips, Sherlock murmured playfully, "What will you have me do, then?"

"Go say sorry," Hamish answered with a firm nod of his head. "'Es. Prom'kiss?"

Unable to help himself, Sherlock laughed aloud and grinned at the earnest gleam in his son's green eyes. "Promise," he whispered, brushing a few slender fingers behind the shell of Hamish's tiny ear.

"Good, Daddy," the little boy approved, giving Sherlock a pleased nod and smile.

"Good. I'm glad you're pleased," the detective laughed with a raised eyebrow at Hamish's clearly content form.

"'Es, Daddy." Grinning sweetly to himself, and obviously deciding the conversation was over and settled, Hamish gave a light sigh, eliciting a smile from his father, before spinning himself on the bed until his body was parallel with the edge of the bed. "Stay, Daddy?"

"Of course. If you want to," Sherlock whispered, smiling at his son's smaller form.

"Ta, Daddy." Heaving a tiny sigh, Hamish pressed a gentle palm to his father's cheek. "Lay here?" he asked timidly, pointing to the detective's arm, which was currently obscured by his face.

"Oh. Most certainly," Sherlock replied, lifting his head up to allow access.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed. "Ta." Grinning at his father, Hamish kept his small hand on Sherlock's sharp cheekbone before resting his head on the detective's forearm and nuzzling close, his auburn curls brushing ever so slightly against Sherlock's jaw.

"You're most certainly welcome," the detective murmured softly in reply, enjoying the ticklish feeling of Hamish snuggling against his arms. Huffing a sigh of his own, Sherlock rested his head on the bed , setting comfortably into the feel of the duvet as he watched his son's sweet form resting against his arms. "I love you, Hamish," he whispered suddenly, stroking a few fingers of his free hand over and across the little boy's cheeks and forehead.

Eyes fluttering open at his father's words, Hamish gave the detective a tiny smile. "Hame know, Daddy," he whispered, chubby fingers curling against the hollow in Sherlock's cheeks as his eyes fell shut again.

"I know you do," the detective whispered with a smile.

 

 

 

 

"So tonight is all right and booked and prepared and—"

"Yes, brother. I am not actually as incapable as you think me to be."

"Mmm. Fine. Let me know when we're to come."

"Of course. Stop worrying."

"Worrying? I'm not worrying, I'm completely calm."

"You're worrying."

"I'm not—"

"It's not a debate. He will love it. I will ring you when it's time."

"Yes. Goodbye."

"Bye, Unk'mel My!" Hamish called, much louder than was necessary, from his position on the couch.

"Hamish says bye," Sherlock chuckled into the mobile, gazing at his son from across the room.

"So I heard. Tell him I said goodbye, as well."

"Yes." With a soft click the line was empty. "Uncle Mycroft says goodbye, Hamish," the detective conveyed and he strode across the room to collapse into his chair, opposite John.

"He'o My!" the little boy called, though he too was preoccupied with his toes to notice that his father was no longer on the phone.

John and Sherlock chuckled with each other, exchanging a quick smile before returning to each other's respective tasks. "Mmm," Sherlock hummed as he quickly tapped away on his phone, researching information on a cold case Lestrade had handed him, in an effort to relieve his nerves and impatience for the approaching night's actions. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you know about poisonous frogs?"

Putting down the book he was reading, John fixed his flat mate with a look of utter confusion. "Poisonous. Frogs."

"Yes, yes, poisons frogs," Sherlock muttered hurriedly, frowning as he flicked a long finger over the screen of the phone. "Do you know anything about them?"

"No, Sherlock," John drawled sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know anything about poisonous frogs. I'm a bloody doctor."

"No need for hostility," Sherlock remarked with a slight pout before quickly regaining his composure. He dared a quick glance towards Hamish, who was seated atop the couch, and smiled fondly to himself at the sight before quickly returning to the case.

 

 

 

 

"Dart frog!" Sherlock cried suddenly from his position at the microscope, causing Hamish to awaken with a jump where he was seated in his lap.

"What, Daddy?" the little boy grumbled, unhappy at having been so rudely awoken from his quick nap.

"Oh. Sorry, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, placing an apologetic kiss to his son's curls.

"It 'kay, Daddy…" Yawning and attempting to rub the tiredness from his eyes, Hamish pressed a tiny, curled up fist into one of eyes while he shoved his face against Sherlock's chest.

"What are you on about?" John asked from where he was attempting to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Hamish.

"Dart frog," Sherlock explained quietly and with less physical enthusiasm, so as not to further disturb Hamish, who was now snoozing comfortably against his chest. "It was poison from the dart frog that killed Mr. Sanders! See?" he said in a hushed tone, grinning at his flat mate.

"No, but that's all right," the doctor replied distractedly.

"No what?"

"No, I don't see how it was poison, but that's all right."

"Oh. Well it's quite simple, really. I merely looked at the—"

"Don't care."

"Well, then," Sherlock huffed, scowling at the doctor. "I'll just tell Hamish when he wakes up. I'm sure he'll find it much more intriguing."

"Yep, probably. What?"

"Poison. Dart frog. Mr. Sanders," the detective replied with a raised eyebrow, sounding incredibly bored as he frowned at John's frantic form.

"Oh. Right." Giving a slight shake of his head, the doctor sat down at the table, seemingly normal once again, the dazed expression replaced by a warm smile as he gazed at his small flat mate. "Wow, he's zonkered. Guess we all wore him out yesterday… How long were you two up before I came?" A scoff.

"Too long," Sherlock groaned with a dramatic eye roll, though he was contradicting himself by carding a few fingers fondly through Hamish's curls.

"Uh-huh. And how long is too long?"

"A few hours. He awoke five hours and twenty-two minutes after you left and then promptly began to play with my hair, I assume because it was the closest object of interest at the time; during the night I had apparently shifted in my sleep, because I awoke with my head on the bed. Anyway, I naturally woke at the feeling of this little one's fingers tugging at my hair," Sherlock chuckled fondly as Hamish sighed into his chest and clutched a fistful of his shirt in his little fist. "Oh. Umm." Quickly regaining his composure, the detective continued, a slight blush rising on his high cheekbones at the chuckle and smirk from John. "I suppose… The sensation was not quite as horrible as I was anticipating," he admitted embarrassedly, finding a sudden interest in Hamish's curled toes. 

"You enjoyed it," John sighed in utter amazement, lips curling up at the corners.

"… A bit."

"Aha! I knew it! There is a heart somewhere in there!" John cried triumphantly, now grinning.

"Oh, come on John, of course I have a heart. I would be physically impossibly for me to live without one."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"… Perhaps."

"Uh-huh. Fine, be like that," the doctor chuckled at his friend's averted gaze. "Anyway! So are you ready to tell me what the big surprise is?"

"Mmm… Nope. That's all right, I'm fine, thank you."

"Wait, why not?"

"Perhaps I wish it to be a surprise for you as well."

"No, you don't," John accused, crossing his arms over his chest."

"No. I don't. It's just fun for me to watch you think very, very hard, attempt to figure out the surprise and then fail. It's quite enjoyable," the detective explained, now immensely amused by his flat mate's blushing cheeks and pursed lips. 

"Fine, then. You can make him lunch," John huffed, having forgotten that he had already made the small boy lunch.

"Ah. thank you," Sherlock murmured smugly as John stomped into the living room, stretching a long arm forward to pull the plate with the sandwich to him.

"Not nice, Daddy," came Hamish's tiny voice, muffle significantly, as he still had his mouth hand face shoved into his father's chest. 

"I thought you were asleep, love," the detective laughed, thoroughly impressed his son had managed to slip such a thing by him. "Very good job…" he murmured, chuckling aloud as he felt Hamish grin into his shirt. "I'm glad you're amused."

"Mmm. 'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied, a hint of drowsiness lacing his tiny voice.

An endearing smile twitching over his lips, the detective carefully stood, chuckling at the unhappy grunt and mumble he received, before moving into his room and setting Hamish's sleepy form down on the bed. 

"Mmmda," the little boy hummed, as a tiny smile danced over his lips when he felt Sherlock start to card a few fingers through his hair. The sight sent a warm, paternal flutter up and down the detective's spine, before it settled as a warm fluttering in his stomach. "Look what you've done, Hamish," he whispered, though the small boy was already fast asleep. "You've made me all soft… Mmm. But that's all right… I don't mind all that much, I suppose." With one last, fond smile, the detective pressed a soft kiss to Hamish's temple before tucking him under the duvet and slipping from the room.

 

 

 

 

Hand in hand with Hamish, John entered the sitting room, a sippy cup in his free hand as he paused in the entryway. "What are you doing?" he asked, staring confusedly at Sherlock's form. The detective was perched on the edge of his chair, fingers pressed firmly against his lips as he stared intently at his mobile, resting across the room on the couch.

"Umm... Having a go at telekinesis are we?" the doctor tried, heaving a sigh as he lifted Hamish onto his waist with one arm.

"It should... Be happening..."

"What should?"

"Any moment... Now..."

"Daddy." Squirming slightly in John's arms, the little boy tapped the doctor on the nose and then pointed towards the ground. "Down 'ease, John."

"Oh. Right, yes, of course." With an amused chuckle, the doctor placed a very concerned-looking Hamish on the floor. Almost immediately, the little boy made a haphazard dash for the couch. "Mmm-uhh," he hummed thoughtfully as he went up on tiptoe to snatch Sherlock's phone. A wide, clearly satisfied grin on his lips, Hamish turned around, and, nearly tripping over his feet, toddled over to Sherlock, who was watching him with curious, yet proud eyes.

"Got," the little boy breathed, holding the heavy mobile out in two hands, as it was too big and heavy for only one. When his father only continued to grin at him, Hamish huffed a slight sigh, though the triumphant smile never left his tiny lips, and rather clumsily, managed to grab ahold of the sleeve of Sherlock's suit jacket, phone clasped between his little fingers. "Oh. Here Daddy!" he exclaimed, after he had pulled the detective's thin hands down and onto his thighs. "Got for."

"You got this for me?" Sherlock gaped, grinning exaggeratedly and gratefully at his son's impossibly sweet face, ignoring the fact that he hadn't actually needed his mobile.

"Mmm-hmm. Good."

"Excellent! You're very bright, Hamish," the detective praised truthfully, bending down to plant a quick, yet tender kiss to his son's forehead. "That was very thoughtful of you to get that for me."

"Good," Hamish giggled, clearly pleased. With a content little sigh, the small boy leaned forward and wrapped a single arm around his father's calf, snuggling against the detective's knee as he gazed off into nowhere.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked quietly, not wanting to disturb his son's thought process too much.

Quite clearly amazed, Hamish pulled away so he could stare up at the detective, mouth hanging open slightly and eyes wide. "How know, Daddy?"

"I'm you're father, Hamish," Sherlock explained with a playful raise of his eyebrow. "Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes. I know everything."

"Please!" John scoffed.

"It's true," the detective said seriously, ignoring his flat mate's outburst. "I can read your mind. Right. Now."

"No," Hamish gasped in amazement. "Real, Daddy?"

"Mmm-hmm. What me to take a guess?" Sherlock chuckled, a genuine smile gracing his cupid's bow lips and he pulled the amazed boy onto his lap.

"Mmm."

"Very well then... You... Were thinking… About Mr. Peter Rabbit."

Though his eyes were already wide, Hamish's seem to grow even more. "Wow, Daddy," he gasped in sheer wonder, a wide grin spreading over his lips as he glanced towards John, as if to see if the doctor had heard it, too.

"Oh, come on! Lucky guess!" the doctor reasoned, shaking a disbelieving head at his smirking flat mate.

"I never guess."

"Yes you do."

"Please, John. He was staring in the direction of my room, his fingers and forearm were curled in such a way that suggested he was mimicking holding a stuffed animal. Put two and two together: stuffed animal. And, judging by the angle of his arm, the animal of choice was Peter. Simple. Oh! About bloody time!" the detective cried, startling Hamish in the process, as his mobile went off his hand, he loud ringing causing the small boy the cringe and cover his ears. "It is all set, then?" Sherlock asked anxiously, not even bothering with social graces.

"Ugh, yes brother. Everything is all set. You two can come over whenever you wish."

"Two? John is with us, you realize?"

"Oh. No, I hadn't... I suppose... Well, I just thought with the marriage quickly approaching that all would be seeing less and less of the good doctor." Sherlock could practically hear the smug grin in his brother's accusing tone.

"Not funny, Mycroft."

"I wasn't trying."

"No, of course not. Yes, John is coming with us. Good?"

"Very well. I will meet you there."

"You? Why are you coming?"

"Your assumptions must be seriously dwindling in accuracy if you think I'm only going to give my precious nephew a tie for his birthday. This is my present. I shall most certainly be there to claim the satisfaction."

"Mmm. Very well. We'll get ready."

"Yes."

"Still not going to tell me where we're going?" John asked accusingly as Sherlock ended the call with his brother.

"Nnn-ope!" the detective declared shooting his flat mate one of his smug grins. "You'll see. Just calm down." Smiling, Sherlock placed Hamish on the ground in one swift, careful move and then strode over to the door to grab his coat. "Ooh, come here!" the detective exclaims joyfully, running back to scoop his son up into his arms.

"Daddy!" the little boy giggled, gripping onto the lapel of the Bellstaff with a tiny hand. "What is doing, Daddy?"

"We are all going out for dinner at Angelo's and then you're going to get a late birthday gift, hmm?"

"Ah! 'Kay, Daddy!" Suddenly excited at the prospect of getting another gift, and one his father was clearly excited about, Hamish squirmed in the detective's arms until he was set on the ground and then ran over to the landing of the stairs. With a tiny grunt of effort, the small boy squatted down, just out view of John and Sherlock.

"What's he doing?"

"Unknown."

"Stay, Daddy! Hame come!" Desired object in hand, Hamish turned around and toddled back into the sitting room. Both adults immediately broke out into a fit of laughter.

"Ah," Sherlock laughed, kneeling down in front of his son and holding his hand out. "We're very eager tonight, aren't we? Mmm. Must be if you're actually getting your shoes of your own free will," the detective chuckled as Hamish gleefully placed the tiny shoes in his palm. "Duly noted."

"Ah, ah, ah. No. Absolutely not."

"And why ever not?" Sherlock whined, already starting to pull the little shoes onto Hamish's feet.

"Because I will not be having you use the thought of a surprise as a bribing tactic; you and I both know that you'll end up lying at some point, and I'd hate to be in your position when you face the revenge of a very disappointed Hamish."

"Mmm… Logical," Sherlock concluded with a satisfied nod of his head. "Right, then… What else do we need?"

"Coat, Daddy," Hamish giggled, fixing his father with a 'don't be silly' eye roll.

"Ah, right. Yes of course. Thank you." Grinning at the likeness between him and Hamish, the detective quickly found the little boy's jacket and then squatted back down, tossing his own jacket gracefully behind him as he tugged the fabric of Hamish's arms. "There. Perfect," he murmured gently patting his son on either side of the arms.

"An' Daddy," Hamish hummed, a precious smile gracing his features as he placed both hands to either side of Sherlock's face to steady himself as he fell forward.

"Mmm. Thank you." Contorting his lips every so slightly, Sherlock turned so he could place a kiss to his son's palm with the corner of his lips. "Right, then! Come along. To Angelo's!"

 

 

 

 

"Fish and chips."

"No, Daddy. Want."

"Hamish, you don't even like pasta, trust me."

"...Prom'kiss?"

"Promise. Fish and chips."

"Uhm… 'Kay."

"There's my boy. Just the fish and chips, then. John? What do you want?" Sherlock asked, handing the menu back to Angelo in exchange for a package of crayons for Hamish. "There you are."

"I would actually love the pasta. Thanks, Angelo."

"Oh, you're most certainly welcome, John! Been far too long since I've seen you two, how have you been?"

"Uh, very good," John answered, as Sherlock was too busy helping Hamish draw something to even notice Angelo had spoken. "I'm engaged, Hamish is—"

"Oh! You two are finally doing it then! About time, we've all been waiting for the day—"

"No, no, no, not Sherlock and I," John explained quickly, daring a glance towards Hamish who was now staring very confusedly at him while Sherlock smirked.

"John an' Mary not?" Hamish asked worriedly, making an attempt to crawl from where he was seated on Sherlock's lap to get to the doctor.

"No, no, Hamish, don't worry Mary and I are still—"

"Mary! A woman?"

"Yes, yes a woman, of course!"

"But! But a woman!" Angelo exclaimed, now looking more confused than Hamish, who was quickly becoming unsettled by the loud shouting.

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock added, tenderly tugging Hamish back onto his lap and placing a reassuring hand atop his small fingers. "Angelo, John is not gay, he is engaged to a woman named Mary, we are still not a couple, yes Hamish is doing wonderfully, and we're out for his birthday."

Hamish was gazing anxiously at Angelo who now looked terribly heartbroken. "Right, then," he muttered with a tiny nod of his head. "I'll get those orders right in, then."

"Thank you," Sherlock thanked, completely unaware of Angelo's distress.

"Well, that was lovely," John mumbled embarrassedly, kneading a few fingers into his temple as he managed a reassuring smile for his tiny flat mate, who was growing at him. "It's all right, little man. Don't worry; Mary and I are still getting married."

"Oh…" Clearly unconvinced, but realizing he would not be getting any further, Hamish merely snuggled further into Sherlock's torso and quickly returning to his drawing.

"Ah, that's lovely," John managed, with a pleasant nod towards the drawing situated in front of Hamish. "What is it? An elephant?"

"Hardly! That is obviously a dog, John," Sherlock scolded with a disapproving glance to his flat mate. "Right?"

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy conceded distractedly as he continued with a crayon clutched in his tiny grasp.

"Ah, right. Well, of course I should have known that."

"Yes, I'm glad you agree."

"Oh boy. This is going to be fun," the doctor remarked, before taking a large gulp of his wine.

 

 

 

 

"Come along, Hamish," Sherlock murmured fondly as he waited for the little boy to pull on his coat.

"Ah!" Hamish sighed once he'd successfully managed to push both of his arms through the holes. "'Kay, Daddy. Hame good. Go now?" he giggled, as he hurried over to the detective, huddling close to his leg in the brisk even air.

"Are you cold?"

"Tiny."

"A tiny bit, hmm? Well we most certainly cannot have that, can we?" Smiling sadly as Hamish shivered into his thigh, Sherlock bent down and pulled his son into his arms. "Oh, come here, little one," he whispered, pausing slightly at the shock of his own use of such a pet name.

"What say, Daddy?" Hamish giggled as he settled into the detective's hold.

"That… Is an excellent question," Sherlock answered, rather confusedly, not haven an answer, himself.

"Hmm," Hamish giggled at his father's response and obvious confusion. "Daddy?" he asked cheerfully, giving Sherlock a tiny tap on the chin.

"What? Oh. Yes, what is it?"

"Hame like."

"You do?"

"Mmm-hmm. Ba'cas Hame tiny," the small boy explained with a content smile on the corner of his lips.

"Because you're tiny," Sherlock echoed. "Very sound logic." With a warm smile, the detective suddenly leaned forward and placed a soft kiss to his son's chill nose. "Oh, you poor thing. You are cold. Here you go. Better?" the detective asked worriedly as he tucked Hamish's head under his chin and into the folds his coat.

"Mmm-hmm. 'Etter, Daddy."

"Good, I'm glad… Oh. It looks like John's finally got a cab. Come along, then! Ready for your surprise?" Sherlock asked, incredibly excited.

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish cried into the detective's skin, wrapping his little arms firmly around his father's neck.

"My thoughts exactly!"

 

 

 

 

"No way," John said as the exited the cab, Hamish still wrapped snuggly both in Sherlock's arms and coat.

"Oh yes," the detective grinned, gently jostling awake his son, who had started to doze off in his arms. "Hamish. Hamish, love, wake up! We're here!"

"Mmm," the little boy moaned softly, forcing his eyes open. "What, Daddy?" he asked groggily, gazing up at the detective from where he was so comfortably resting."

"Here. Look!" Practically jumping with excitement and anticipation, Sherlock gently spun Hamish's small form in his arms until the little boy was facing forward, sitting on a seat he had made out of his forearms.

All drowsiness immediately dissipating, Hamish, too, started to vibrate with excitement. "Daddy!" he squealed, clapping his chubby hands together as he stared, open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the building in front of him. "Fishies!"

"You rented out the entire aquarium," John whispered, still clearly shocked as he saw Mycroft standing on the top steps, twirling his umbrella as usual. "The entire… Bloody… Aquarium?"

"Precisely! Leaving John's still-gaping form behind, Sherlock quickly surged forward, carrying Hamish, who was now hugging him profusely, up the steps to Mycroft.

"Unk'mel My!" the little boy called as he caught sight of his uncle, who immediately returned the excitement with a warm smile.

"Why hello, there, Hamish!"

"Unk'mel My, look, look! Fishies!"

"Yes, I see. Happy Birthday, Hamish," Mycroft laughed aloud, sharing a genuine smile with Sherlock, who quickly set a very eager Hamish on the ground.

"Where's John? Ah. Flabergasted, are we?" the government official drawled as John finally made his way up the stairs.

"Well a bit, yeah. That boy is so spoiled."

"That's exactly the point," Mycroft and Sherlock both answered simultaneously, quickly sharing a glare with each other, before each was drawn back to the present my Hamish's delighted squeals. "Go in, Daddy? 'Ease?" he begged, hurrying over and taking ahold of Sherlock's much larger hand in a few of his own fingers. "Hame want see fishes!"

"Of course, of course. Come on, then, let's go!"

Mycroft and John stayed behind for a moment to watch Sherlock rush in the doors with Hamish, disappearing into a sea of blue as the doors shut behind him.

"This was very… Kind of you," John thanked, feeling the gratefulness was such an understatement, though, that he should say something more.

"No, not at all. I was more than happy to do it. Wasn't difficult at all. And Hamish is quite happy, so that's all that matters, right?"

"I suppose but… Geez, the whole bloody aquarium."

"Mmm," Mycroft hummed, clearly pleased with himself. "Yes, it's quite nice isn't it?"

John merely scoffed a chuckle in reply.

"Well, then. Shall we go in?"

"Mmm."

Both men paused as the entered the doorway to find Sherlock, Hamish clutched protectively on his hip glaring at someone, clearly an employee, who was scowling right back.

"Oh Lord," Mycroft sighed distastefully with an eye roll as they watched the scene.

"We do not need your assistance, thank you," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, clearly trying to remain calm for the sake of Hamish, though the little boy was also glaring, though in a more sad way, at the employee.

"I beg to differ. You couldn't even—" the man tried, but was quickly cut off by Sherlock's much-taller form towering over him as he moved just a few inches from his face. Angling Hamish's body away, the detective lips twitched up into a sinister smile for the briefest moment before leaning in towards the smaller man's face and whispering something in his ear.

John rolled his eyes as he saw the blood drain from the employee's cheeks and saw the way his form suddenly went rigid.

"Very good, sir, " the young man stuttered suddenly as Sherlock pulled away, face completely smoothed of all the sinister quality it had had just moments ago. "I'll just uhh… Be off then." Turning on his heel, the man quickly exited the entry and disappeared.

"That's what I thought," Sherlock's deep voice rumbled as he turned to Hamish, who was subconciously clinging to his sleeve and fingers. "It's all right," he reassured gently, running a finger careful finger over the little boy's cheek. "It's all right…"

"Not nice, Daddy," Hamish whispered, gazing off in the direction the man had left. With a tiny intake of breath, the small boy leaned to the side and pressed his cheek against Sherlock's arm. "Not nice…"

"I know it wasn't," the detective whispered sadly, leaning so he could rest his cheek atop his son's smaller head. "And don't you believe a word of it for a minute… You're positively brilliant, love," he continued softly and in a reassuring way, barely even noticing John and Mycroft hovering close by.

"Why did say, Daddy?" Hamish sniffled, turning to press his face into the soft fabric of his father's coat.

"Because he's an ignorant, rude, positively stupid, ingrate," Sherlock all-but-spat. "Trust me, love, there's no reason to take any stock in what he said. He's an absolute idiot." The detective smiled sadly as he felt his son give a weak chuckle into his arm.

"Idiot," the small boy repeated.

"Mmm. Very much so," Sherlock murmured with a hint of playfulness in his voice.

"Is dull, Daddy?" Hamish asked, daring a quick peek up at the detective.

"Precisely!" the detective whispered enthusiastically, giving his son's sad form a reassuring wink. "Look at you," he whispered, leaning down to speak in the little boy's ear so only they could hear. "I told you you were positively brilliant. Only a smart little boy could have possibly come up with such a clever explanation. You see?"

"Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish replied with a hint of a giggle in his tiny voice.

"There's my body." Smiling reassuringly, Sherlock pressed his lips to the little boy's temple.

"See fishies?"

"Yes. All of them," Sherlock replied with wide eyes. "And I bet… Mycroft would absolutely love to start the tour, hmm?" he hinted.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Sniffling softly, Hamish took a quick inhale of breath, smiling as the reassuring smell of his father filled his nostrils before turning to his Uncle. "Unk'mel My?"

"Yes, Hamish? What is it?" Mycroft answered softly.

"Take to fishies?"

"It would be my utmost pleasure," the government official responded. Hooking the handle of his umbrella over his wrist, Mycroft took a step forward and Sherlock transferred Hamish into his brother's arms.

 

 

 

"Go on, then. Tell me how you convinced him."

"Turns out my brother was most distressed after my kidnapping a while back," Shelrock explained softly, keeping a careful eye on Hamish.

"Yeah. So?"

"Guilt is a powerful tool, John," the detective explained with a sly sideways glance.

"Oh—oh, my bloody hell, no you didn't!"

"A little bit," Sherlock answered with an amused twitch of his lips.

"Sherlock, that was positively awful! I'm sure he felt absolutely terrible about what happened to you, and for you to just—"

"Oh, please, mother," the detective ridiculed with an eye roll. "Look at him. He's perfectly happy. He loves being with Hamish, and was more than happy to set this up. Besides, I didn't ask him to book out the entire aquarium. I had only asked for special privileges that we wouldn't have to pay for. It's a win-win, so just calm down… Besides, Hamish is loving it," Sherlock added with a smile towards his son, who was listening intently to whatever Mycroft was explaining to him as he stared into the shining water.

"But, Sherlock, I really don't think you understand the…"

John's voice, though he was still talking, began to slowly fade away as Sherlock watched Hamish, completely focused on the action and movements of his son. The detective's lips quirked up into a smile as he saw the little boy giggle at something Mycroft had clearly said.

"Mmm," he hummed aloud, not even realizing he'd done it.

"What?" John asked, stopping mid-rant.

"Nothing, nothing," the detective murmured with a submissive wave of his hand. "Just uuh…" Not bothering to finish his statement, Sherlock quickly strode forward as he saw Hamish beckon to him. "Having fun?" he asked fondly and with a warm grin as John quickly followed behind.

"Best!" Hamish cried. With a wide grin on his sweet features, the little boy rushed forward and wrapped his chubby arms around Sherlock's knee, pressing his face into the detective's thigh.

"Well good! I'm glad!" Sherlock laughed, tangling the tips of his fingers in his son's silky curls as he exchanged a pleasant smile with his brother and flat mate.

"Oh, oh! Come, Daddy!" Hamish urged, clutching a tiny fistful of Sherlock's coat in his hand. "Show Daddy Nemo an' Dory?"

"I would love you to show me!"

And so, with Sherlock, Mycroft and John taking different turns showing Hamish different parts of the aquarium, void of any people, the four made their way about the building, though most of everything was lead by Sherlock, who carried the small boy on his hip or waist for the rest of the trip, usually riddling off all sorts of information about which fish do what and how they do it upon coming to a new tank. And both Mycroft and John knew that Hamish was positively loving every single moment of it. With each of Sherlock's explanations, the little boy's eyes would brighten and the smile that was now permanently resting on his lips would grow in happiness and wonder.

 

 

 

 

"Right, then… Back at the beginning," Mycroft declared with a pleasant smile as they reached the entryway again. Hamish, who was situated against Sherlock's side, was nearly asleep in the detective's arms, his eyelids drooping every now and again. His tiny form was swaying back and forth, his head occasionally bumping against the detective's shoulder and jaw as he started to doze.

"Ohh… Well then, I think we'd better be heading home," Sherlock said quietly as he swayed back and forth, gazing fondly at his son's drowsy form.

"Yes… Goodbye, then, Hamish. I had a lovely time," Mycroft chuckled, taking one of the little boy's hands in his own and giving it a minuscule shake.

"Mmm. 'Es, Unk'mel My. Ta much."

"You're most certainly welcome, Hamish. It was my pleasure."

"Hame 'ove," the little boy yawned, cracking open a few eyes to give his uncle a smile.

"I love you very much, as well… Thank you for a wonderful evening."

"Mmm," Hamish giggled tiredly. With a bashful smile, the little boy tucked his head away into the cover of the space between Sherlock's neck and collarbone, making a tiny moaning sound as he yawned again.

"Oh, yes, we're tired," the detective chuckled, pressing his hand to the back of his son's head and stroking a few fingers over the silky curls.

"Yes, we are, aren't we…"

"Thank you very much, Mycroft. He loved it. I uhh… Really appreciate it," Sherlock thanked his brother, managing a warm smile.

"As I said: my pleasure… Good night, John."

"Bye, Mycroft."

"Right, then," Sherlock whispered, following after his brother and into the dark night. "Let's go home, hmm?"

 

 

 

 

"So. Come on, out with it. What was all that about?" John asked, once they were all situated in the cab and were on their way back to Baker Street.

"What was what all about?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about," the doctor said quietly with a slightly raised brow.

"… Fine. Upon entering, he had told me that he was going to give us a tour. I very politely replied that I was far more knowledgeable about everything than he was, including fish, so he was more than welcome to sod off. He very rudely replied with a few choice words I should not care to repeat and an incredibly unnecessary remark towards Hamish and his… Intellectual capacity, which I refuse to repeat. Needless to say, it upset us both, and if you don't mind, I would prefer not to say anymore," he finished with a clipped tone, tugging Hamish's snoozing form close to his middle as he stared out the window.

"Ah," John sighed, giving a sad smile to his flat mates. "Sorry."

"Me too. But, we're fine now, so…"

"It's okay, Sherlock. We can drop it. I'm sorry he said that."

"Yes, me as well… Not for me but for him," Sherlock murmured softly, making a gesture down to his slumbering son.

John merely nodded slowly in response, listening to the steady rhythm of the tires on the pavement. "Have you given it to him yet?"

"No, not yet," Sherlock whispered, a small smile creeping over his lips. "If he's alert enough when we get home, I'll give it to him then."

"He'll love it."

"I do certainly hope so."

 

 

 

 

Hamish awoke as Sherlock was carrying him up the stairs to the flat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, love," he apologized quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It 'kay, Da'ey," the small boy responded with a yawn, stretching his little form out in the detective's arms.

"Should I give it to him?" Sherlock mouthed to John.

"Yeah," the doctor replied with an encouraging smile. "Hey, bud," he whispered gently, placing a hand to Hamish's back as they reached the landing of the stairs. "You're such a big boy. I'll see you tomorrow all right, little man?"

"'Kay, John… 'Ove."

"I love you, too, Hame," John whispered with a smile. "Goodnight," he added with a kiss to the top of the small boy's head. "Sleep well, all right? And take care of Daddy for me."

"Mmm. 'Kay, John," Hamish giggled softly, giving the doctor a tiny wave of his hand. "Say he'o Mary."

"I most certainly will."

"An' 'ove."

"Of course…"

"Ba-bye, John."

"Bye, Hame." Smiling, John, rather reluctantly released his tiny flat mate's hand. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he murmured with a warm smile to his friend.

"Goodnight. Thank you, John, for coming. Sorry I'm…"

"You?"

"Yes," Sherlock scoffed fondly, returning his flat mate's smile with one of his own.

"Right, then. I'll be back tomorrow, yeah? Let me know how much he loves it." With a quick pat on the detective's shoulder and one last kiss for Hamish, John silently slipped down the stairs, leaving Sherlock and his son alone on the landing.

Still smiling slightly to himself, Sherlock walked into the sitting room and knelt down on the ground. "Hamish?" he asked gently, setting the little boy on his feet but keeping a hand on either side of his little body to hold him steady.

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish asked tiredly, rubbing a fist into his eyes.

"I would like to give you one more gift… If you'll have it."

"A more tres'tent?" the little boy inquired, perking up at the mention.

"Yes… Would you like it now?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent… All right, close your eyes and hold out your hands," he whispered softly, already reaching into his coat pocket.

"'Kay, Daddy." Smiling, the little boy held out his two tiny hands, making a delicate cup.

"Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Right. Here you go." Moving slowly, Sherlock gently placed the object clasped between his slender fingers in his son's tiny hands. "There you are. Open."

Now grinning, Hamish opened his exceptional green eyes and they fell to the light weight in his hands. "Oh, Daddy," he sighed in amazement, features suddenly going serious as he stared at the gift. In his hands was an incredibly small magnifying glass, nearly identical to the one he had given Sherlock for his birthday all those months ago. " Daddy…"

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked tenderly, cupping his son's cheek with one hand as he assessed the little boy's soft features.

"Hame 'ove it, Daddy," Hamish whispered. Moving incredibly slowly and with a feather-light touch, the small boy turned the magnifying glass over in his little fingers, deep green eyes examining and memorizing every plane and slope of the gift. "Oh, Daddy," he sighed again, and with a blink was staring into his father's own equally striking eyes.

Sherlock's breath was momentarily stolen from him as he stared back to his son's eyes, amazed by the depth and complexity of them; amazed at how, though he knew it physically impossible, they seemed to go on forever. "Good," was all he was able to manage.

"What wrong, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, clutching the gift between his fingers. "Why sad?"

"Oh, Hamish." Chuckling weakly, Sherlock reached forward and wrapped his long arms around Hamish tiny body, pulling him close to his chest. "I'm not sad, love. I'm so impossibly happy. Sometimes, I just… I have too much love in my heart for you, and I don't know where to put it so… So…"

"It 'kay, Daddy," Hamish reassured. Shifting slightly, the little boy managed to pull an arm free from his father's grasp. "Hame know. All here," he stated, gently patting Sherlock on the chest.

"That's exactly it, Hamish," the detective half-laughed, half-sobbed into his son's hair.

"Sad, Daddy?"

"No. No, not at all… I'm so unbelievably happy, Hamish. You make me unbelievably happy." Sherlock could feel Hamish smile against his chest.

"Daddy give Hame happy."

Unable to reply in a coherent way, Sherlock just laughed, breathing in the sweet smell of his son's hair. "That's good… That's good," he whispered after a moment. "Oh, uhh…" Wiping away a few tears he didn't realize had slipped free, the detective released his grasp on Hamish, but the little boy stayed exactly where he was, keeping his little hand on his chest. "What is it, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, stroking a thumb over his son's brow.

"Here."

"What about it, love?"

"Too much 'ove?" Hamish asked earnestly, glancing down to the magnifying glass in his chubby fingers.

"I… That's exactly it, Hamish. Too much love… You just… Oh, Hamish you amaze me," he sighed in awe, letting his hand slip from the little boy's face and rest on his tiny collarbone. His thumb rested over the hidden little scar, as if obscuring it from all memory.

"It 'kay, Daddy." Keeping the gift in his fingers, and not removing his hand from his father's chest, Hamish placed his free hand over his own heart. "Hame same," he reassured with a smile Sherlock could only describe as understanding.

"Oh, I love you, Hamish," he laughed aloud, unable to fight the urge to plant a kiss to his son's forehead. "So much… You're my little one, aren't you?" he asked, tears brimming once again. "My little one…"

"'Es, Daddy." Absentmindedly tapping the black plastic of the magnifying glass with one tiny finger, Hamish appeared to be thinking very hard about something. "An' Daddy Hame big per's'mom," he stated with a confident nod of his head.

Sherlock laughed aloud, sniffling softly, so as not to alarm Hamish before continuing the rhythm of stroking his thumb over the little boy's eyebrow. "And I'm you're big person. Yes, I like it… I do love you, Hamish."

"Hame know. An' Hame 'ove lot, too. All heart."

"With all your heart…"

"Mmm-hmm, Daddy. No more."

"In your heart."

"'Es. All full at 'ove."

At that moment, a rare smile danced across Sherlock's features. "All full of love… How was I lucky enough?"

"What, Daddy?"

"What on earth did I do to deserve you, Hamish?" Shaking his head and desperately trying to stop the tears of wonder and joy from falling, Sherlock carefully wiped his eyes on the collar of his coat before reaching forward and taking Hamish into his arms once again. "So you like the magnifying glass?"

"Lot, Daddy," the little boy reassured, wrapping both of his arms around the detective's neck and snuggling close to his collarbone. "Best tres'tent."

"Even better than the fishes?"

"Lot."

"Good," Sherlock laughed, pressing his lips to his son's temple and letting them linger against the soft skin. Sensing his son's exhaustion as the little boy's body immediately melted against his and was now limp in his arms, the detective walked into his room, placing kisses all over his son's forehead. "Are you going to keep it with you, then?" he asked as he set Hamish's tired form under the covers and made a nod to the gift, still wrapped tightly in the small boy's hands.

"Mmm-hmm. Want keep. 'Kay?"

"Okay," Sherlock whispered fondly, sitting on the edge of the bed while he waited patiently for Hamish to get settled comfortably into the bed. "All good?"

"'Es, Daddy. Stay?"

"Of course." Smiling as he saw Hamish was already fighting to keep his eyes open, Sherlock reached forward and cupped his son's face in one hand. "Goodnight, love. I love you very much," he whispered as he very slowly moved his thumb over the delicate curve of the little boy's cheek.

"Mmm," was all Hamish could manage, eyes fluttering closed and open with each stroke of his father's thumb. "I 'ove you, Daddy."

Too caught up with the beauty of his son and the love for him to realize the little boy had used "I" properly for the first time, Sherlock merely counted the number of times Hamish breathed, stroking his thumb in tandem with the breaths until the little boy's breathing was completely normal and even, his deep green eyes shielded by closed eyelids, the magnifying glass still wrapped in his tiny fingers.

Smiling with a fond look in his eyes, Sherlock leaned forward and barely pressed his lips against the tip of Hamish's nose, in an incredibly soft, tender kiss. "I love you, Hamish. Sleep well. I'm glad you like your gift." Still smiling, the detective carefully removed himself from the bed and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him.

"John. John, he loved it, he… He…" Sherlock paused in the doorway to the sitting room, the grin slowly fading from his face as he found the doctor's chair to be empty and then suddenly remembered that he was now living almost full-time with Mary… "Right, then." Giving a firm nod of his head, the detective slipped away into the kitchen and sat down at the microscope, overwhelmed with the rush of emotions he had just felt and were currently feeling.

"My little one," he chuckled aloud as he leaned in to look through the lens. "Perfect…"


	42. Wedding Bells

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"What is doing?"

"Putting on… A tie," the detective muttered with disgust as he finished looping the fabric through itself. "Unfortunately."

"Why, Daddy?"

"Why is it unfortunate?" Sherlock asked, turning away from the closet to kneel in front of Hamish, who was sitting on the ground, staring curiously up at him.

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy hummed, giving an earnest nod of his head.

"Because, I positively detest ties. But, one is required for the occasion, so I must wear it… And Mary might literally pummel me if I don't," the detective added playfully, unconsciously straightening Hamish's own little clip-on tie.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy…" With a content little murmur to himself, and a grunt of effort, Hamish shoved himself into a standing position and reached forward, mimicking the previous move of his father, to straighten Sherlock's tie, though it needed no such thing. "Ahh-mmm," he murmured, little fingers delicately, though in a rather haphazard way, moving the fabric to the left and then back to middle again. Sherlock couldn't resist a smile. "Mmm-hmm," Hamish concluded when he was finished. "Good now, Daddy?"

With a hint of a smile still on his lips, the detective chuckled. "Very. Thank you. What on earth would I do without you?"

"Not good," Hamish answered, pressing his lips together, in a similar fashion to his father, and giving a single nod of his head.

"Quite right," Sherlock laughed, grinning warmly at the small smile that crossed his son's features when he did so. "Come along, then." Giving his son's auburn curls a gentle ruffle, the detective straightened and gestured to the closet, where, hanging next to his own, was Hamish's tiny suit.

Giggling and clapping his hands together, the little boy hurried over, grinning up at his father's tall form as he waited. "Is mine, Daddy?" he gasped airily, attempting to reach up and grab the fabric.

"Of course. All yours," Sherlock laughed, pleased with his son's excitement, and glad that was he was not sharing in his own discomfort and worry. "Would you like it?"

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy hummed, quite literally too excited to form coherent words.

"Very good, then." Gazing down with loving eyes at his son, Sherlock plucked the tiny outfit from where it was hanging. "Would you like help."

"No, Daddy," Hamish answered, immediately reaching up and making an eager grab for the fabric. Sherlock obliged with a rumble of chuckle, releasing the suit from his fingers.

Biting down on his bottom lip in attempt to stifle his excited giggles, Hamish took his outfit from the detective with as much carefulness as he could muster and held it in front of his small face, examining the fabric with sheer amazement and wonder. "'Es, Daddy," he sighed, almost too quietly for his father to hear.

"Yes, what?"

"Hame need—"

"Ah, ah. Who needs?"

"I need," Hamish giggled triumphantly, clutching the tiny suit to his chest as he leaned forward to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"There's my boy," the detective murmured before running the pad of his thumb across his son's cheek in a tender manner. "Of course I'll help you. Oh! And very good grammar, by the way!" he added encouragingly.

"Ta, Daddy!" Hamish declared with a grin, handing the tiny suit in his hands to his father's much-larger ones.

"You're very welcome." With swift fingers, Sherlock pulled the tiny suit jacket, pants and vest from the hanger. "Ohh. Up we go," he groaned as he lifted Hamish's form onto the bed. "You're getting too big. Stop growing," he scolded lightheartedly, though one corner of his lips was quirked upward into a fond smile.

"I can't, Daddy. Can't help," the little boy giggled.

"Ah, that's right, of course you can't. I'm afraid I'd rather forgotten that you can't help how fast you grow… But still! If it was in my power, I'd keep you little forever!" Sherlock chuckled animatedly, gently tickling Hamish's spine with the fingers he had placed there.

"But Daddy," the little boy giggled, quickly rolling off his father's fingers and scooting over to the detective. "I want grow," he sighed cheerfully, placing a hand to Sherlock's temple and pressing down the raven curls that had been resting there.

"As do I," Sherlock murmured, pressing a purposely-noisy peck to Hamish's cheek. "Just not so fast!" Smiling, the detective quickly snatched the tiny trousers resting on the bed and pulled off the jeans that were currently on his son's legs, quickly replacing them with the pants. "There. All set?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Very good, then. Well… How about a quick snack and then we'll… Be off?"

"'Kay, Daddy." Grinning, and completely unaware of his father's obvious anxiousness, the little boy took ahold of Sherlock's much-larger hand and carefully hopped off the bed. "Come, Daddy?" he asked distractedly, trying not to ruin or wrinkle his special outfit.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course I am. Apologies. You go in… I'm just going to… Finish."

Quickly forgetting his clothes, a small frown drew on Hamish's face as he heard the uncertain tones lacing his father's deep voice. "Is what wrong, Daddy?" he asked worriedly. When no response came, the little boy hurriedly toddled over and tugged on the detective's trousers. "Daddy. Daddy, what wrong?" he persisted, using his deep eyes to urge his father to look at him.

Quickly coming back to the present, Sherlock gave Hamish a reassuring smile. "Nothing, I'm just—" The detective paused, however, at the skeptical, unbelieving look of worry gazing up at him in his son's green eyes. "Sorry. I'm a little nervous. Uncertain. Unsure," he murmured, accentuating each with a gentle pat of his fingers. "Sorry for lying."

"It is 'kay, Daddy… But why is?"

"Well," Sherlock sighed dramatically, leaning down to hoist Hamish's small form onto his hip. "I'm rather afraid that I'll ruin everything. This is the most important day in John's life—or so he claims—and I just don't want to… Screw it up for him."

Hamish, who had been carefully studying his father's lips as he spoke, now drew his attention to the detective's eyes, staring earnestly into their lighter shade. "Why think that, Daddy?"

"I suppose it's because I know that I'm not well-liked. And, as such, there's a much higher chance that, due to the general dislike of me, my best man's speech may or may not be taken well, see?"

Clearly contemplating his father's words, Hamish traced a tiny finger delicately back and forth over Sherlock's collarbone. "Well… Hame like you, Daddy," the little boy whispered, giving his fingers a tiny pat of reassurance against the detective's neck.

Pausing the swaying he didn't even realize he'd started, Sherlock turned his head, nearly bumping his chin against Hamish's cheek in the process and merely stared, wide-eyed at his son.

"Did say wrong, Daddy?" the little boy asked after a few moments, worried by the striking gaze of his father.

"Not a thing, Hamish," Sherlock whispered in response, a hint of a smile dancing over his lips. "In fact you couldn't have possibly said anything more perfect."

"Oh," Hamish sighed, relieved. "Good, Daddy." Now smiling once again, the little boy leaned forward and rested the temple of his head against the hollow in Sherlock's cheek as he wrapped his little arms around the detective's neck. "'Kay now, Daddy?"

"Mmm," Sherlock rumbled, pressing a kiss against the silky curls tickling his lips. "Much better, in fact," he answered truthfully, finding a surge of bravery and calm wash over him at his son's words.

"Good. Come, Daddy. Go eat?"

"Yes."

Father and son smiling in tandem, Sherlock obligingly carried Hamish into the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

"Right, now. If you feel like you must use the washroom, what do you do?" Sherlock asked as the cab rolled to life.

"Ask Daddy."

"Exactly. And if I'm not around?"

"Nana an' Aunt Molly."

"Very good," Sherlock praised cheerfully, giving Hamish's leg a gentle squeeze. "We'll be fine, right?"

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy hummed, crawling out of his seatbelt to crawl over to his father, much to the detective's secret amusement. "You be 'kay, Daddy," he reassured with a precious smile.

"I most certainly hope so, Hamish…"

 

 

 

 

Hamish sat settled firmly on his father's lap throughout the entire service, and quite frankly the detective was very impressed with how patient and calm the little boy remained, though he suspected Hamish had dozed off against him a time or two, resulting in the calm.

When the service ended, Sherlock stood patiently, holding Hamish's hand while pictures were taken, more so to keep the little boy in once place, as he was quickly becoming quite energetic with all of the excitement of everything happening around him, and all the while trying to ignore the many fleeting, desperate glances he was receiving from all of the single women waiting around.

As soon as the pictures ended, Hamish made a haphazard dash for Mary and John, who quickly huddled the small boy into their arms, giving him a cuddle and a kiss, much to his delight. Holding Hamish in his arms, John turned in the direction the little boy had come from, and laughed aloud as he found a large group of women had crowded around Sherlock, much to his apparent alarm. "Need some help?" the doctor mouthed when he caught his friend's eye.

"PLEASE," the detective shouted back, giving one woman, who was particularly close, a wary scowl.

"Come on, Hamish," John laughed, giving Mary a quick peck on the cheek before linking fingers with her. "Let's go help Daddy, hmm? He looks a little desperate."

"What? Oh." The worry that had momentarily crossed Hamish's features was quickly replaced by a wide grin as he giggled bashfully into John's neck upon seeing his father, so clearly uncomfortable, surrounded by throes of flirting women. "What is wrong at Daddy, John?" he laughed, nuzzling against the doctor's skin and wrapping his little arms around his neck as they made their way over to the Sherlock and the crowd of girls.

"Your father is receiving an excessive amount of female attention and has absolutely no idea what to do with it," John chuckled smugly as they reached the group. "Excuse me, ladies. Bride and groom coming through, thank you, thank you." Grinning, the trio finally made their way to Sherlock.

"Thank you," the detective half-sighed, half-gasped, placing a hand on Hamish's back as he took a deep breath, huddling closer to John and Mary, as if using them as a shield.

"Oh!" came the sudden cry from one of the women. "Is that—you have a son!" This statement quickly sent the ladies into a new flurry of excited chattering.

"All right, all right. Leave the poor bloke alone, will you? He's overwhelmed enough as it is," John scolded, though the smirk was clear in his voice.

Still chittering excitedly to himself, the swarm of girls slowly dissipated, with many longing glances toward Sherlock, and now, towards Hamish, as well.

"Thank you," Sherlock thanked again, giving Mary a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek.

"Not a problem."

"Ah. I see Hamish found you?" Sherlock chuckled with a nod towards his son's clearly comfortable from.

"Yes. And he's quite made himself at home."

"Yes, well… He misses you," Sherlock whispered, expression suddenly going sombre as he noticed how desperately Hamish was clinging to John. "It's like losing a parent, I suppose… He keeps trying to crawl into your bed." Quickly realizing this was the wrong thing to say with an expression from Mary, the detective quickly tried to recover. "But—I mean, uhm—he's still doing quite well, we've uh—started potty training, haven't we, Hamish?" Sherlock mumbled quickly, giving his son's bottom a quick pat of encouragement.

"Oh!" the little boy cried, quickly perking up. "'Es, John! I is do good!" he declared with a confident nod of his head.

"Is that so? Well, I'm very excited to hear that!" the doctor encouraged, though Sherlock could tell it was with far more happiness and excitement than he was actually feeling. "That's exciting, isn't it?"

"Mmm-hmm, John." Clearly deciding the conversation was over, Hamish quickly snuggled back under John's chin and a content little smile spread over his lips as he rested there.

 

 

 

 

By the time Sherlock was to give his speech, he was a nervous wreck, grip around Hamish's middle tight and strained.

"Daddy?" the little boy asked, sensing his father's discomfort. "No be upset, Daddy. Do good," he reassured, twisting out of the detective's hold so he could stand up on his thighs. "I like, Daddy," he whispered before pressing an incredibly tender kiss to Sherlock's nose. "Do good."

"Oh, I do love you," Sherlock whispered, allowing his head to fall forward just slightly until his forehead was touching Hamish's. "Very much," he added as he felt that familiar wave of calm only Hamish could give him settle his rapidly-beating heart. "Let's go do this, shall we?"

"Mmm-hmm. Go an' show how 'ove John," the little boy encouraged as Sherlock stood and he was placed back on the seat. The detective couldn't help but laugh out loud at his son's order, quickly clapping a hand over his lips as the sound drew many stares. "That's exactly what I'm going to do," he chuckled as quietly as he could, giving Hamish a wink before turning and grabbing a glass of champaign. "John Watson…"

 

 

 

 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sherlock turned to John, looking for reassurance that he had done his speech correctly. He was met with a teary-eyed, thankful, clearly shocked grin. "How was that?" he asked out of the corner of his lips, unsure how to gauge the facial expression.

"Bloody brilliant," John laughed, quickly hopping up from his seat to wrap his arms around his friend's much-taller form.

"Oh, I uhh…" Deciding to return the gesture was the best option at this point, Sherlock carefully wrapped his arm around John's shoulders and gave them an awkward pat. "So it was good, then?"

"Absolutely," John reassured with a pat, pulling back. "That was perfect, Sherlock. Thank you for that."

"Oh, well… You're welcome, I suppose. Though I'm not quite sure what I've done." John merely laughed in response, before sitting back down and taking Mary's hand in his own.

"Good?" Sherlock mouthed to her, knowing whatever Mary said would be the truth.

"Oh yeah," she responded back with a firm nod of her head and a smile.

"Good." Sighing in relief to himself, and glass still in hand, the detective turned around to find Hamish, his little legs hanging off the end of the chair, grinning up at him with nothing but love, adoration, and pure amazement filling his deep green eyes. Sherlock nearly laughed aloud as he saw the little boy pat the chair beside him. "I may sit, then?" he chuckled.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered, his small voice quite clearly full of happiness.

"Oh, good. I was worried there for a moment." Taking a sip of his champaign, and with a warm smile, Sherlock carefully sat and transferred Hamish back onto his lap. "Did you like it?" he whispered into the little boy's ear, running a thumb over his son's stomach.

"A lot, Daddy. Did good. An' John an' Mary 'ove lot."

"Did they, now?"

"Mmm-hmm. An' I."

"Oh, phew. As long as you liked it, that's all that matters," Sherlock chuckled lovingly as he pressed several soft kisses to Hamish's temple and cheek.

"Mmm, Daddy," the little boy sighed in contentment, turning Sherlock's lap and curling up into the detective's arms. "Did much good."

"Thank you, Hamish."

"Welc'mom, Daddy," Hamish whispered into his father's neck, smiling against the skin.

"Mmm."

 

 

 

 

Eventually, people were dancing, and there was music, though most of it went unnoticed by Sherlock, who was desperately trying to keep an eye on Hamish, who was 'dancing' with Molly at the moment. Eventually, however, the little boy started to attract extensive female attention, and quickly fled the scene, taking cover behind his father's protective legs.

Deciding it was probably time for them to leave with Hamish actually fell asleep on the floor, and nearly got stepped on in the process, Sherlock quickly scooped the little boy up, which in turn, woke him up, and hurried over to John and Mary. "Well, I think we'll be heading home now. We're losing the sugar high," Sherlock chuckled, referring the absolutely monstrous amount of cookies Hamish had consumed earlier.

"Aw, come here, darling," Mary whispered, quickly taking the little boy from Sherlock's arms. "You be good, now, all right?"

"'Es, Mary," Hamish whispered into her jaw as he was hugged close.

"Promise?"

"Mmm. Prom'kiss, Mary," he giggled before being transferred to John.

"I love you, little man," the doctor whispered with a bittersweet smile. "You keep him out of trouble for me, okay? It seems to me you've done an excellent job so far, yes?"

"I do good?"

"Very," John whispered, punctuating it with a kiss to his little flat mate's nose. "Mmm. I'm going to miss you," he sighed sadly as he clutched Hamish's form close, wrapping him in a tight hug. "I don't know how on earth I'm supposed to survive not seeing you everyday."

"Not see more?" Hamish cried suddenly, nearly jumping in the doctor's arms upon coming to the realization.

"No, no, no, of course we'll still see each other," John reassured, quickly realizing he'd said the wrong thing.

"Oh... Good. Go now, Daddy?"

"Yes, love, we have to go now."

"... 'Kay." Bottom lip protruding slightly, Hamish wrapped his arms around John's neck, trapping him in one last, tight hug. "I 'ove, John."

"I love you, too, Hamish. Very much... Mmm... Now you be a good boy now, you hear?"

"'Es." A hint of a smile on his lips, Hamish allowed himself to be transferred back to his father's waiting arms.

"We'll be all right," Sherlock whispered, both to Hamish and John.

"I know you will... Text me or something when you two get home, to let me know you've made it safely. Yeah?"

"Certainly. Good evening, John. Mary. And my sincerest congratulations," Sherlock murmured, wrapping his arms under Hamish's form and clutching him close as he gave the newly-married couple a warm smile. "Best of wishes."

 

 

 

 

"Come on, love," Sherlock whispered, setting Hamish upright on the bed as he started to undress the little boy. "Pajamas tonight, or no?"

"Not," Hamish whispered, gazing absently off into space.

"Why am I not surprised?" Sherlock chuckled fondly.

"... Know what, Daddy?" the little boy asked suddenly as he allowed Sherlock to gently pull off the vest and suit jacket.

"No, what's that?" the detective responded with a fond quirk of his lips as he started to undo the tiny buttons.

"I 'ave good fam'ly," Hamish whispered, lips pressed together into a sweet smile.

Fingers momentarily stilling, Sherlock looked up from where he had been previously staring at his son's clothes to gaze questioningly into the little boy's eyes, to find Hamish was staring at a picture that he'd recently put up on the dresser. A picture of John and Mary, holding hands, with Hamish situated, grinning, on the doctor's shoulders. "Yes," Sherlock whispered, now also gazing at the picture. "You do, don't you?"

"We, Daddy," Hamish corrected, not noticing as he wrapped a little hand around several of Sherlock's fingers as he continued to stare. "We 'ave good fam'ly."

"Yes... We do," Sherlock whispered, returning the gesture by enveloping his son's hand with his own. "We are very lucky... You're very lucky, Hamish. You have a lot of people who love you."

"Mmm. Like Daddy?"

"Yes, like me. And John, and Mary... Hamish," the detective started, crawling onto the bed and pulling his son into his lap. "You know that just because John doesn't live here anymore, he doesn't love you any less, right? He still loves you all his heart."

"Hame know, Daddy..."

"And I still love you..."

"'Es... I 'ove, too," the little boy yawned, curling his body backwards and into Sherlock's stomach.

"Good. I just want you to know that you are loved by all around you, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy... An' Daddy?"

"Yes, and me as well. We are both loved by our family... Even though they may not live here anymore... Understand?"

"'Es... But Daddy an' Hame still live."

"That's right. We still live here together. And I love you very much, all right?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, in a way Sherlock knew meant he was quickly slipping away into the blanket of sleep.

"Good... That's good." Moving his son's now-limp form, the detective carefully finished undressing Hamish before changing his nappy and tucking him under the duvet. "I love you," he whispered as he pressed a loving kiss to the little boy's forehead. "Goodnight, Hamish."

Sherlock was just about the close the door behind him when he paused, having a thought. Turning around, the detective silently moved to the dresser and took the picture Hamish had been staring at in hand. "There you go, love," he whispered, as he carefully set the frame down on the side table, so the little boy could see the picture whenever he woke up in the morning. "It'll all be all right... You'll see," he whispered, brushing the back of his knuckles over Hamish's forehead, enjoying the steady sound of his son's breathing. "You'll see..."

 

 

 

 

Sherlock was seated at his microscope when he heard the gentle padding of his son's tiny feet against the hardwood floor. Smiling fondly to himself, the detective slid off of his chair and moved to the entry to the sitting room, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe as he saw Hamish's tiny form toddle into view.

"What are you doing?" he asked fondly, taking a step into the room and ignoring the late hour.

"Need... Want say bye-bye," Hamish whispered, sounding rather confused, which Sherlock knew was due to tiredness.

"Well why don't we do it tomorrow, hmm?" the detective asked, taking another step towards his son's swaying form.

"No 'ease, Daddy. I do now. Need to." Not waiting for a response or protest, and rubbing a few tiny fingers into his eyes, Hamish slowly made his way over to John's chair and, with a small sigh of effort, hoisted himself onto the furniture.

Realizing this was about John, and not wanting to interrupt any kind of grieving process his son might be going through at the moment, Sherlock silently sat down in his chair opposite, crossed his legs and steepled his fingers under his chin as he carefully studied his son's movements and actions.

Still looking slightly confused, Hamish managed to find a comfortable spot on the chair. Heaving a tiny, almost sad, sigh, which made Sherlock's heart twinge a bit in his chest, the little boy scooted himself close to one of the arms of the doctor's chair. Clearly thinking very deeply about something, Hamish, took a single, tiny hand and pressed his little fingers to the fabric of John's blanket that was draped over the chair. "Oh, John," he whispered. Eyebrows drawing together to form a positively heartbroken expression, Hamish leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the arm of the chair. "Bye, bye, John," he whispered into the material, pressing his cheek against it and heaving a tiny sigh. And the sight all-but-broke Sherlock's heart. Hamish needed John here...

"John," the little boy choked suddenly, attempting to curl around the arm of the chair. "Want John, Daddy!" he began to cry, clutching desperately to the chair, as if willing the doctor to suddenly appear from the material

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock cried softly, quickly rushing forward and collecting his son's now-sobbing form into his arms. "Come here, little one... It'll be all right... Shh... We'll be okay, I promise. John will be back, love. He's not gone forever." When his words seemed to do nothing to calm Hamish, Sherlock decided that the best thing he could do right now was be there for the little boy... And let him cry.

And cry he did. Hamish sobbed, clutching desperately to Sherlock as tears fell freely from his eyes. His little fingers were buried in the detective's raven curls as he was walked and swayed and bounced by the detective. The little boy cried until his cheeks flushed a dark pink and he started shaking from the force of his sobs. And all the while, though every instinct, every nerve ending, every fibre of his being was telling him to help, to cure to, to wash away the sadness, Sherlock merely whispered soft 'shushes' into his son's ear; stroked his fingers over and through the little boy's hair; rocked back and forth; and cuddled and held him as close as Hamish needed and for as long as he needed.

Eventually, the two ended up in John's chair, with the doctor's blanket draped over both of them, Hamish still pressed as closely as he could be to Sherlock.

"There, now... You're all right," the detective whispered pressing kisses to his son's hair and cheeks and nose and forehead. "I've got you, love... Right here."

Sniffling softly, Hamish gave a feeble nod of his head. "Stay, Daddy."

"For as long as you need," Sherlock whispered, tucking the blanket even further around his son's body.

"Miss John, Daddy," Hamish whispered into the detective's chest, tracing the gap at the base of his neck. "Want here."

"I know it... I know it, love. I'm sorry I can't make it better."

"Daddy..." Thoroughly worn out, and giving a sad little exhale of breath, Hamish's eyes unwilling slid shut, the emotions and tears suddenly rushing away as he went limp, replaced only by the calm and familiarity of his father's form, close by and surrounding him.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed sadly, burying his nose in his son's curls an focusing on the sensation of the little boy's breath against his skin. "We'll make it through. I promise. We will..."


	43. Changes

"Hamish? Hamish, are you up?" Sherlock asked gently as he entered his room with a quick rap of his knuckles against the wood.

"Not, Daddy," the little boy whispered from the dimness.

"No? Well then how are you speaking, hmm?" the detective chuckled half-heartedly as he sat down on the bed, trying to make out his son's tiny form.

"Oh. Don't know, Daddy. Was."

"You were sleeping?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Well why aren't you any more?" Sherlock asked sadly, as he could finally make out Hamish's form, wrapped tightly in John's blanket.

"Don't know, Daddy," the little boy sighed, rolling over and onto one of Sherlock's hands as he carefully untangled himself from the blanket. "I wake up."

"Yes, you did... How are you feeling?"

"... Tiny no good."

Sherlock may have laughed if it wasn't for the sad frown and dried tears on his son's face.

"Tiny not good," he echoed as he brushed his fingertips over Hamish's forehead and pushed a few stray curls from his eyes.

"How is Daddy?" the little boy asked hesitantly, eyes fluttering open and shut with each stroke of his father's fingers.

"How am I doing? Well... I suppose I'm all right... I'd be a lot better if you weren't sad," Sherlock whispered with another feather-light touch of his fingertips.

"Me, Daddy?"

"Yes, you. I don't like it when you're sad."

With a tiny grunt of effort, Hamish rolled out of the warm confines of John's blanket and crawled over his father's limbs until he was seated in Sherlock's equally-warm lap. "Hame is sorry, Daddy," he whispered into Sherlock's chest, burying his small face in the fabric.

"No, no, no," Sherlock whispered hurriedly, fixing Hamish with a frantic look. "Don't you apologize. You have done nothing wrong, all right, Hamish? You are perfect, and the emotions you're feeling are completely normal and understandable. Just, please… Don't apologize, love… You've done absolutely nothing wrong and have nothing to be sorry for, all right?"

A sniffle. "'Kay, Daddy."

"Oh, Hamish." Frowning sadly, Sherlock pulled his legs onto the bed and wrapped his entire body around his son's much-smaller form, entrapping and enveloping him in a warm hug. "Oh, love… I'm so sorry," he whispered into Hamish's silky curls, stroking a hand up and down the little boy's back.

"It is 'kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered, turning his head out of the safety of his father's chest and instead pressing his cheek into Sherlock's bicep. "Now both are sad," he mumbled, daring a quick glance up towards Sherlock's face.

Chuckling sadly, the detective gave a single nod of his head. "Yes, I suppose we are, aren't we?"

"Mmm-hmm, Daddy. Bad, John."

"Bad John?"

"'Es. He 'eave an' give Daddy an' Hame sad," the little boy whispered sadly, snuggling further into Sherlock's safe hold and closing his eyes as he heaved an airy sigh.

Frowning slightly at the conclusion Hamish had come to, Sherlock pressed soft kiss to his son's head, wanting desperately —feeling desperately—like he should be defending John… Yet, no words of such defense came to mind… He supposed, in a way, that Hamish was correct; John had left. And in doing so, had not only caused his son distress, but in turn him, because of Hamish's sadness. So, technically speaking, he supposed it was John's fault that both of them were sitting, curled around each other, clutching desperately for the comfort of each other's hold. "We'll be okay," was all he could think to finally say.

"T'ink so, Daddy?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered honestly, leaning back just enough so he could stare into Hamish's incredible eyes. "I do."

 

 

 

 

It took two days before John called the flat.

"Hamish!" Sherlock called from where he was trying to make an edible sandwich for the little boy in the kitchen, mobile held between his cheek and shoulder.

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish answered cheerfully as he toddled in from the sitting room. Sherlock refrained from telling his son, if just for a moment, so he could revel in one of the first smile he'd seen on the little boy's face since the wedding. "There's someone on the phone for you."

"Is is, Daddy?" Hamish asked, hurrying over to be swiftly picked up by Sherlock.

"Here you are." Smiling, and feeling a sort of reassuring warmth spread through him as he held Hamish's cheery form close, Sherlock carefully moved the mobile from its holding place to press it against Hamish's tiny ear.

"He'o?" the little boy asked confusedly, sending Sherlock an alarmed look. The detective merely smiled encouragingly.

"Hey, Hame!"

Green eyes growing incredibly wide, Hamish shuddered a bit in excitement and released a soft gasp. "Daddy!" he exclaimed breathily. Tapping at the detective's cheek, the little boy pressed himself closer to his father's form. "Is John!" he gasped. "Is John, Daddy!"

"Yes, I know! Why don't you say hello?" Sherlock encouraged as he John's laughter make its way through the phone.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Now grinning uncontrollably, and with his tiny chest heaving up and down with elated breaths, Hamish turned his attention back to the mobile Sherlock had pressed against his ear. "He'o, John! Is come back day?"

Sherlock chuckled sadly and then, not even noticing, pulled his son's form closer.

"Oh, uhh… No, little man. I'm sorry, bud."

"Oh." The smile slowly slipping from his lips, Hamish leaned his head atop Sherlock's shoulder, as if in defeat.

The silence on the other end of the line quickly prompted John to continue. "But how about if I make a visit tomorrow, hmm? How does that sound, Hame?" the doctor suggested, sounding far more energetic than he felt.

Perking up a bit at the mention of an actual visit, a small smile returned to Hamish's lips, though he kept his head resting heavily against Sherlock's shoulder. "Come morr'mow?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure! I will certainly try my hardest."

"Good, John. Daddy an' Hame need John."

"You do, hmm? And why's that?"

"Must do, John. No good."

"You just do, hmm?" John echoed in a bittersweet way. "Right, then. Well now I will most definitely need to pay you two a visit, hmm?"

"'Es. Good. 'Kay, John. Say he'o at Daddy." Bye-bye. 'Ove." And without further word, Hamish moved his head just slightly, prompting Sherlock to pull the mobile away, and then quickly settled himself again on the detective's shoulder.

"Oh, uh—oka—bye, bud, I love you, too!" John cried hurriedly, hoping Hamish had heard him.

Chuckling, Sherlock pressed the mobile to his own ear. 'Good afternoon, John. So I hear you will be paying us a visit, then?" the detective smirked as he gently bounced Hamish up and down on his hip.

"Well, I—yeah I guess so. Your son is quite the convincer."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed with a playful eye roll and a wink to Hamish, which sent the little boy into a fit a bell-like giggles. "Not unlike his father, I suppose."

"And don't I know it? Anyway… How have you been? Both of you, I mean."

"We're fine, John," the detective answered, now rather tense. "Both fine. I mean…" Heaving a sigh, Sherlock pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, moving Hamish to his lap. "Hamish is… Adjusting," he lied. "He's just trying to get used to the idea of only having one adult around; only one to ask for help and turn to. As am I, I suppose. But, umm… Yes, we're getting on. Hamish will be most pleased to see you."

"Oh ,well… Good, then! I miss the little guy."

"Yes, well…" Holding back the somewhat biting remark poised on his tongue, Sherlock merely transferred the frustrated energy to his hand, and tightened his grip around Hamish's little body. "We'll both be anxiously awaiting your visit."

"Right, then. Good! Well, I'd better get going; Mary and I are going out for lunch. Can I say goodbye to Hame?"

"Of course. Oh." Sherlock glanced down to see that Hamish had fallen asleep against his chest, mouth hanging open, with a tiny hand buried in the fabric of his shirt. "I'm afraid he's fallen asleep. Poor thing had a rather restless night," the detective murmured as he felt his son's warm breath against him.

"Oh. Sorry to hear that."

"Yes, well.. That's quite all right. We got through. Anyway… See you when you get here?"

"Yea, of course!" John answered with false happiness. "Good."

"Yes." Sherlock silently ended the call. "Oh, Hamish," he sighed, splaying his long fingers over the little boy's steadily rising and falling back. "What are we going to do with you?"

 

 

 

 

That night, when at half-past three, Sherlock felt a gentle tugging at the hem of his trousers and a tiny voice whisper, as if scared, "Daddy," the detective was willing John to melt out of the walls and appear.

"What seems to be the problem, little one?" Sherlock responded sadly, leaving his position at the microscope to scoop Hamish, who had plopped down on the ground and was rubbing at his eyes, into his arms. "Hmm?"

"Need you, Daddy," Hamish murmured in exhaustion. With a tiny sigh, the little boy fell forward, grunting when his head bumped against Sherlock's jaw, and then yawning again as his head slipped down to settle in the space between his father's neck and shoulder.

"Anytime." Features drawing together in a rather sadly pained expression, Sherlock silently carried Hamish's exhausted form into the his room. "Ah. Here we are," he sighed in a soothing tone as he gently lowered both Hamish and himself onto the bed. "That's better now, isn't it?" Careful not to roll onto his son's settling form, Sherlock found the blanket and managed to wrap it around Hamish, while keeping himself out. "Good?" he murmured, laying down on his side and waiting for the little boy to get properly settled and comfortable.

"'Es, Daddy. Is much good," Hamish whispered with a yawn, stretching his tiny limbs out and uttering a kind of squeak or moan at the effort, the sound of which caused an affectionate smile to grace Sherlock's lips. "Good, then."

"Da'ey?"

"Yes?"

"John is be coming ah'morrow?"

"Yes."

"'Kay, Daddy… Good."

"Yes, I… Suppose it is."

"Mmm-hmm." Too exhausted to utter anything more, Hamish merely snuggled his little self close to Sherlock's chest, wrapped a hand around several of the detective's fingers, clutched them to his chest and promptly fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Sherlock awoke to the sound of Hamish's tiny voice mumbling into his chest. Opening his eyes just a crack, the detective quickly gauged his surroundings, to find that he was now on his back, and that Hamish was lying perpendicular to his longer form; the little boy's small head was resting on his stomach. Glancing down, Sherlock found that Hamish had taken one of the buttons of his shirt between two tiny fingers and seemed to be having a sort of conversation with said button.

"What are you doing down there?" Sherlock rumbled fondly, giving Hamish, whose fingers had now stilled, a welcoming smile.

"Oh! Morn, Daddy!" the little boy called cheerfully, quickly forgetting the button as he threw his tiny form towards Sherlock.

"Oof! Well good morning to you, too!" Sherlock laughed, returning the tight hug his son now had him trapped in. "Feeling better?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the curls covering Hamish's temple.

"I is good, Daddy," the little boy reassured with a nod into the detective's neck.

"Well, good. I'm quite glad to hear that."

"Mmm-hmm… Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"I 'ove, Daddy."

Pausing slightly to give his son a fond sideways glance, Sherlock pressed another kiss to the little boy's curls. "I love you, too, Hamish."

"Mmm," the little boy giggled, pressing his nose into Sherlock's raven hair. "Good, Daddy."

"Indeed it is… Breakfast?"

"Ver'my good!"

"My thoughts precisely!"

 

 

 

 

"Daddy?"

"Mmm?"

"When John come at?" Hamish asked from where he was lying on his belly on the sitting room floor, trying desperately to complete rather difficult puzzle.

"Oh, huh… Well, I'm afraid I don't know. Sorry, Hamish," Sherlock apologized, quickly sliding off the couch and scooting over to his son's form. "Try there," he whispered with a playful wink as he pointed to the proper spot for one of the pieces.

"Oh." A tiny grin now lightening his precious features, Hamish gave a tiny mumble, scooted himself forward, and with incredibly delicacy, dropped the puzzle into its slot. "Ta, Daddy!" he cried t triumphantly, grabbing ahold of Sherlock's knee and giving it a thankful hug.

"Oh! Well you're most certainly welcome," the detective laughed. Grinning warmly, he gave Hamish's back a gentle pat. Suddenly, Sherlock heard the sound of the front door opening, followed closely by the distinct sound of John's shoes treading up the steps.

"Hamish!" he whispered excitedly, moving into a crouching position before carefully hoisting Hamish up under the armpits. "I think we have a visitor!"

Quite confused, Hamish turned his attention to the doorway, waiting with a tiny hand somehow finding its way to his father's cheek. The little boy nearly fell backward with joy when he saw John's grinning form emerge up the stairs. "John!" he squealed, too overwhelmed with happiness and excitement to even think to run forward.

Chuckling, Sherlock gave his son a gentle push of encouragement, laughing aloud when the little boy turned to him with wide, questioning eyes that quickly widened in understanding. "Oh!" he gasped. "'Es!"

Grinning, giggling, and squealing in pure joy, Hamish toddled forward s fast as his little legs would allow, and then more-or-less fell into the doctor's open arms.

"Oh!" John cried as he scooped Hamish's body into his arms and clutched him close to his chest. Almost immediately, the little boy clasped his arms tightly around the doctor's neck and buried his face in John's neck. "Oh, John," he sighed gratefully, nuzzling against the doctor's skin.

"I'm here, bud. I'm here," John breathed into Hamish's hair as he turned so as to press a series of frantic kisses to the little boy's silky curls. "Oh, how I have missed you, Hamish," he whispered, feeling his heart skip a beat painfully in his chest at the thought of having to leave this tiny being, resting so peacefully in his arms.

"Is stay, John?" Hamish whispered anxiously, showing no signs of releasing the doctor from his grip.

"Oh, of course I am! After all, I have to make up all the hugs and kisses I've missed before I could even possibly think about leaving, right?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"That's my little boy." Taking a deep breath, and still holding Hamish close, John turned his attention to Sherlock, who was staring at the two of them, hands placed gracefully in his pockets. "And how about you, hmm? How have you been?"

"Oh. You know me," Sherlock murmured with a playful shrug. "I get on by trying to see how many ways I can almost burn the flat down." An incredibly alarmed look. "Just kidding," he added with a wink, chuckling and smirking to himself.

"Daddy," Hamish giggled preciously from his perch in John's arms. "No say bad lies at John," he continued, still laughing, but turning just enough so he could smile at the detective.

"Ah, right. Of course. So sorry," Sherlock murmured with a loving twitch of his lips.

John watched the exchange with a somewhat bitter pang of longing. He supposed, or rather, he had expected, that when he returned to the flat, he would find it in complete disarray, with Hamish and Sherlock tearing each other to pieces, or the little boy still dressed in the clothes he'd last seen him, or not properly fed. Of course, these thoughts were completely ridiculous, and of course he knew that. It was foolish to think that, just because he'd left, both Sherlock and Hamish would fall to pieces… Still… The doctor had expected, had almost hoped that there would be some evidence, besides Hamish's form clinging to him, that he was missed, needed.

Shaking away the selfish thought, John pressed another series of kiss to Hamish's face before plopping down in his chair and settling the two of them comfortably into the cushions.

"Oh! John?" Hamish cried suddenly, pulling away and loosening his grip just enough so that he could gaze into John's eyes.

"Yeah, little man?" the doctor replied, equally energetic.

"Want come help I at new puzzle Daddy got?"

"Daddy got you a new puzzle, did he?"

"Mmm-hmm! Go at Angmelo's an' park an' shops. I liked an' was good boy." Finishing the story, Hamish merely pointed to the new puzzle sitting on the floor.

"Oh, well very good for you! What kind of puzzle is it!"

"Oh! It… It, uhm…" Frowning, Hamish turned to Sherlock for help.

"Elements!" the detective declared with a proud nod of his head both to John and his son.

"'Es, John! El'melts!"

"Ohh! Well that's… Very… Like your father," John laughed, shooting the detective an eye roll which was returned by a fond smirk.

"'Es! So want help?"

"I would love to!"

 

 

 

 

So John spent the rest of the day playing games with Hamish, listening to his endless stories, playing some more games, completing puzzles, and eventually eating dinner with his two former-flat mates. Hamish remained seated on his lap the entire meal, and the little boy was, for once, too busy with focusing on John to notice that his father didn't eat.

Having missed his nap, by the time half past nine rolled around, still held safely in John's arms, the little boy quickly fell asleep, a single hand buried in the softness of the doctor's jumper.

"Oh," John sighed softly, pausing the rocking he didn't even realized he'd started. "He's fallen asleep."

"Ah. Yes, well, he missed his nap today, so I suppose he's quite zonkered out from all the excitement," Sherlock murmured, smiling fondly at the sight in front of him as he sat down in his own chair and crossed his legs.

"One nap?"

"Oh. Yes, we've moved down to one nap a day. We both felt the addition of the other one was becoming a bit redundant."

"Oh… And when did you plan this?" John asked quietly, starting the gentle rocking again, which received a small sigh from Hamish.

"About a week ago."

"Ah, I see… Well, it seems to be working for you… Anything else you've changed?" he asked, trying to sound as conversational as possible.

"Well… Let's see… Oh, yes. We've been practicing on sharing, so now I always eat his snack with him, and it has become his job to learn how to offer me some of his food… He's learned to identify the letters "S" and "Z", though I'm not quite sure why, as we have not specifically worked on those… And he's starting to try and tell the time. Although, I must admit, he's still quite rubbish at it." This emitted a chuckle from both adults.

"Well, it sounds like you're doing really well with him."

"Yes, well… As I said. Adjusting." Suddenly averting his gaze, Sherlock found a sudden interest in the arm of his chair.

Noticing the change, John was just about to say something when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He carefully pulled it out and read the Caller ID. "Oh. That's Mary. She'll be calling to tell me to get home… So how about I give him to you, then?"

"Ah, yes." Both standing, John carefully transferred Hamish to his flat mate's arms. Almost instantly, the little boy curled inward, melting in to the familiar shape of his father's chest. And the sight couldn't help but make a twinge of jealously churn uncomfortably in John's stomach.

"Right, then. Thank you for having me over. You'll have to call me with a case some time… Speaking of which, I'll give him a ring tomorrow, yes?"

"Very good."

The two friends shared a genuine smile and a quick pat on each other's shoulders before the doctor placed one last kiss to Hamish's forehead and then slipped out of the flat, while the detective carefully deposited his son's limp body under the covers in his bedroom, praying and wishing that the little boy would actually sleep through the night, now that he'd seen John. He would not, however, get his wish.

 

 

 

 

And so it went: Hamish would receive at least one phone call from John a day, and was supposed to receive at least two to three visits a week. However, as the days and weeks wore on, Sherlock had started to notice that the phone calls were becoming shorter; the visits less and less frequent. And, just when he'd noticed that things were getting better (Hamish would smile more often, giggle like he normally had, and was almost his normal self once again), it seemed that a little bit of that renewed brightness and joy would slip away with each missed phone call and visit.

And so, as such, Sherlock decided to make it his personal goal to bring back some happiness into Hamish's life, and help the little boy to realize that although John was not living with them anymore, they were still a family… A family which loved and cared deeply for each other.

It was not quite a day after making this personal vow that Sherlock entered from the kitchen, a snack of strawberries and biscuits on a plate for the two of them to share, as they had been practicing the art form of sharing, when the sight of Hamish, seated not-quite-crosslegged on the floor, staring wistfully at John's empty chair, gave him pause in the doorway.

"Hamish?" he asked worriedly, placing the plate back in the kitchen and squatting down next to his son's somewhat dazed form. "What is it?"

"I is 'tink, Daddy," Hamish whispered, incredible green eyes scanning back and forth over the chair.

"What about, love?"

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"I can ask?"

"Well, of course you can."

Sniffling slightly and with bottom lip quivering, Hamish turned his teary gaze to his father's taller form. "John did 'eave ah'cose of Hame?"

"What?" Sherlock cried, suddenly coming to blinding, painful realization of why John's leaving had affected Hamish so much; the little boy thought it was his fault. "No, no, no," he said hurriedly, reaching forward and pulling his son's sniffling form into his arms. "John did not leave because you, Hamish," he whispered, hugging the little boy close. "He did not."

"How do know, Daddy?" Hamish whispered into the detective's neck, voice quavering slightly.

"Because I know that John loves you with all his heart, and nothing—nothing—you could do could ever change that." Frowning, Sherlock sat down in John's chair, ignoring the foreign feeling of it against his body, and sat Hamish on his lap, turning him so they were staring eye-to-eye. "Listen to me. You've done nothing wrong, Hamish. And don't you go thinking you have. Oh, my love, is that why you've been so sad?" he asked, feeling somewhat heartbroken, as he already knew the answer.

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish merely answered, with a tiny nod. "Ah'cose I 'tink John say bye to 'eave Hame ah'cose I say bad or do bad or—or… But say John no had 'eave ah'cose at Hame?" Hamish asked, impossibly quiet, with his bottom lip quivering. His impossible green eyes were glassy with brimming tears.

"No, Hamish!" Sherlock whispered intensely, running a thumb up and down his son's cheek and wiping away a stray tear that had slipped free. "John most certainly did not not leave because of you, do you hear me? John loves you with all of his heart. Oh, Hamish love, you could never do anything to make John want to leave, nor I. You are perfectly wonderful and lovely, and don't you ever think differently, all right?" Sherlock explained rather frantically, accentuating his point by tenderly covering Hamish's tiny chest with his large hand. "John and I love you so very much. And I promise you… He did not leave because of anything you'd done. John left because he got married, and that's what married people do; they live together… Do you understand, love? Oh, Hamish, you did nothing bad. And you said nothing wrong. And John did not leave because of anything you did."

Clearly mulling over his father's words, Hamish pressed his lips together and leaned forward, resting his temple against the hollow in Sherlock's cheek as he thought. "So," he whispered eventually, the corner of his lips brushing ever so slightly against his father's skin as he spoke. "John no did 'eave ah'cose Hame be bad?"

"No," Sherlock answered sincerely, accentuating the word with a press of his lips to his son's nose.

"An' no ah'cose Hame say bad an' no say 'ove lot?"

"Oh, Hamish, my little one, most certainly not."

"John say bye ah'cose haved?"

"Exactly. John said bye because he had to."

Taking a deep breath and releasing it with a tiny sigh, Hamish closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's lips, prompting the detective to press a series of soft, feather-light kisses to the skin. "Oh, Daddy," the little boy sighed opening his eyes and pulling back to stare up into his father's silvery orbs. "So… John still 'ove?"

"With all of his heart, Hamish." And with those words, Sherlock could practically feel all of the tension, the anger, the sorrow, the tears, the confusion, the hurt—every emotion his son had felt as a result of John leaving, suddenly dissipate. Clearly relieved, Hamish's body slumped forward and downward, as if exhausted, and the little boy released a tiny sigh. "Oh, Daddy," he repeated in a voice just below a whisper… "'Ove y'u, Daddy."

"And I love you too, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, body flooding with gratefulness and relief as he trapped Hamish's now-relieved body in a tight, warm, reassuring, and loving hug. "Oh, you poor thing," he whispered into the little boy's auburn curls. "Oh, your poor thing…"

"It is 'kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered, closing his eyes and leaning into the comforting touch, allowing it to envelop and protect him. "Is lot 'kay now, Daddy."

"You are most certainly right, my love… So very right…" Sherlock looked down when there came no response from his son, to find that the little boy had fallen asleep on him again, a tiny smile gracing his small lips. "Oh, Hamish." Smiling in a bittersweet way, himself, Sherlock pressed one more kiss to his son's temple before carefully carrying the little boy to his room. "You sleep well, Hamish," he whispered as he tucked the small boy under the duvet. "Everything's all right now, you brave little one."

That night, Hamish had his first peaceful night's sleep since the wedding. And, as he tucked the little boy's tiny, limp form under the covers, Sherlock suddenly realized that they really would be all right. They'd made it through… And would continued to keep pushing on. It would only require patience, understanding, many changes, and lots of love.

"Goodnight, Hamish. I love you. Sleep well, little one." And, that night, he did.


	44. Growing Up

"Ohh, I'm coming to get you!"

"No, Daddy!"

"No? Oh, we'll see about that!" Sherlock laughed as he chased a very naked Hamish around the flat, desperately trying to get him into a bath. "Oh, my goodness, you crazy little boy!" he exclaimed. And with a lunge forward, the detective had Hamish in his grasp and was quickly toting the little boy to the bath.

"Oh, Daddy," Hamish sighed in defeat, letting his head fall against Sherlock's shoulder as they entered the bathroom.

"Uh-huh," the detective smirked, giving his son a cheeky pat on the bottom. "Told you I'd catch you. Never doubt your father." Grinning, Sherlock gave Hamish a playful wink and then lowered him carefully into the full tub.

Accepting defeat, and quite clearly glad to do so, Hamish merely returned his father's grin with a precious smile of his own. "Good, Daddy," he praised.

"Mmm. I quite agree."

Giggling, Hamish quickly found several of his bath toys, which had taken permanent residence in the tub and started to drive and push them through the water. Sherlock watched with a small smile as the little boy began having a very animated conversation with a toy boat.

"Now, Hamish?"

"Mmm, Daddy?"

You remember that I'm going out today with John, right? Remember when we talked about that last night?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Good. And that you'll be staying with Aunt Molly while I'm out?"

"An' baby Rose?" Hamish gasped, though he had already known about the encounter.

"Yes. And baby Rose," Sherlock chuckled. "You'll be all right?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good."

 

 

 

 

"Come along, Hamish. Time to get out."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Deserting his toys, and quite anxious to get out of the now-cooling water, Hamish decided that he would try to crawl out of the bath himself, and save his father the trouble. With a tiny grunt of effort, and a quick check to make sure his father was busy with the towels, Hamish hoisted himself over the edge of the tall tub. But with the combination of the moist tile and his own slipper body, Hamish quickly slipped from the side of the tub and landed in a squishy-sounding heap on the tiled floor.

"I was most appreciative, by the way for the lack of splashing tod—Hamish!" Sherlock cried as soon as he heard the slippery speaking of Hamish's grip releasing itself from the side of the tub. The detective turned on his heel just as his son's little body hit the floor with a smack. "Oh Hamish, are you all right?" Kneeling down, the detective quickly scooped his son's dripping wet form into his arms, paying no heed to his suit, and snatched a towel before hurrying into the bedroom.

Hamish, who seemed confused, more than hurt, merely gazed up at Sherlock with rather dazed eyes; he'd fallen, hit the floor, and then been whisked away by his father all in a matter of seconds, so he quite disoriented at this point. "Daddy?" he mumbled in confusion, the word quickly turned into a whimper as he tried to tap Sherlock's shoulder, and was met with a jolt of pain. "Owie, Daddy," he mumbled again. Now quite upset with the whole situation, and believing this would make it better, Hamish shoved his face into Sherlock's chest, hoping to find comfort and protection from the confusion, but instead he was met with another sharp pain in his chin. Having had entirely enough, the little boy turned his face to the other side and then promptly began to cry frustrated tears into his father's shirt. "Is owie, Daddy," he cried, not noticing he was being carried into the kitchen.

"Hamish? Hamish, look at me," Sherlock murmured frantically as he stood in the kitchen desperately trying to remember where he'd put the first aid kit. "Damn it," he muttered, feeling panic begin to drain its gripping way into his veins.

"Bad, Daddy," Hamish scolded, too fed up with it all.

"I'm sorry, Hamish. You're quite right," Sherlock agreed, pressing an apologetic kiss to his son's temple. "It's all right."

"Is not 'kay, Daddy," Hamish snuffled. "I is owie, Daddy."

"I know. I know it." Desperately needing John to be here to tell him what to do and how to help, Sherlock decided he should first put Hamish down and assess the extent of the injuries before her panicked even further. He suddenly remembered he was grasping a towel in one hand. "All right, all right, come here little one." Thinking clearly enough to run a soothing hand up and down the subtle bumps of his son's bare spine, Sherlock quickly draped the warm towel over Hamish's—he just realized—shivering body. "Oh, Hamish." Gathering himself, the detective quickly shoved some leftover experiments off the counter, placed Hamish so he was sitting on the now-clear spot, and wrapped the towel further around his body. "Here, let me have a look at you, love."

"No, Daddy." Face splotching pink and sniffling madly, Hamish gave a firm shake of his head and attempted to crawl back into the solace of his father's arms.

"No, Hamish. I need to see what's wrong."

"No, Daddy. Not be good, Daddy," the little boy managed between sniffles.

"What's not, Hamish?" Sherlock asked confusedly, though he was quite surprised at how calm he sounded.

"No is John, Daddy."

"Well, no of course I'm not."

"No is John," Hamish repeated earnestly, sound utterly confused and heartbroken at the same time.

Not understanding, Sherlock placed a hand to one of Hamish's tiny arms, put him back on the counter and managed to disentangle himself from the little boy's grip. "What does John have to do with anything?" he asked gently, catching his son's watery gaze. "Hmm?"

Sniffling and wiping at his tears one tiny fist, Hamish gave an airy sigh. "'Kay, Daddy."

"There's my boy." With an encouraging half-smile, Sherlock gently lifted Hamish up by the armpits and set him on a kitchen chair, so that he could kneel down to his son's eye level and appear less intimidating with his height. "Right, then. Go on. Tell me."

"'Kay, Daddy… Daddy not can."

"And why's that?" Sherlock asked with a raised brow.

"Is not John, Daddy And John say is doct'mor. Doct'mor fix ouchies. Daddy is not. No can."

"Ah," Sherlock sighed in understanding, dropping his brow as his gaze grew soft. "I see, then. You think that because I am not John, who you know to be a doctor, that I cannot take care of your injuries."

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish mumbled, dark green eyes traveling over his father's face, as if to asses the detective's reaction.

Sherlock couldn't suppress a smile as he saw his son's impossible eyes, and realized he was being deduced. "Well, Hamish… I must say, your logic is very sound." Sherlock chuckled when he saw Hamish's downcast eyes rise up to meet his own. "Now. Although you are correct when you say I am not a doctor, I do happen to have some experience with mild injuries. So, although I may not be as skilled as John, would you mind too terribly if I had a go?" Sherlock asked with a soft gaze and a smile.

Returning the smile with a sweet one of his own, Hamish gave a tiny nod of his head and then crawled into his father's waiting arms.

"Good boy." Giving his son a reassuring pat on the back, Sherlock quickly squeezed Hamish close, giving him a hug, and then set him back on the counter once again, still wet and cold. "Right, then. What seems to the problem, old fellow? Tell me where it hurts."

"Ouch, Daddy." With a solemn nod of his head, Hamish lifted his arm hesitantly, and pointed to his wrist.

"Your wrist hurts?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Would you mind if I… Just had a look?" Sherlock asked with raised brows.

"No, Daddy," the little boy sniffled. "Is 'kay."

"Thank you." With a delicate touch, one seemingly too soft for a man with such calloused and worn hands, Sherlock reached forward and wrapped a few fingers around his son's tiny wrist. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured, sending Hamish an apologetic wince when he saw the little boy grimace. "I'll be more gentle." Staying true to his word, the detective's grasp softened impossibly more. "Better?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good. Now let's see here…" Sherlock carefully moved around Hamish's wrist, careful not to move his hand from its spot. "Right. I'm just going to give it a little tap. Is that all right?" the detective inquired with a questioning brow.

"No, Daddy," Hamish breathed frightfully, attempting to pull his hand back.

"Hey, hey, shh… Apologies." Pressing his lips together to form a small smile, Sherlock loosened his grip even more and then pressed a soft kiss to the gentle curve of his son's wrist. "Now, then… Did that hurt?" he asked, smirking when he saw the realization he'd been bested cross Hamish's eyes.

"Oh. No, Daddy," Hamish whispered, sounding incredibly shocked at his own words. "No did ouch, Daddy."

"Hmm. I thought so." Smiling fondly, Sherlock pressed another quick peck to his son's cheek before continuing. "Right. Now I'm just going to…" With a slight movement, the detective rolled the little boy's wrist just slightly to the right and then down, quickly pausing as he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a whimper. "Ah. That hurt, didi t?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish sniffled with a pout. "Did ouch. No is good."

"Mmm. I quite agree. Most sorry about that. But," Sherlock breathed in relief, "there appear to be no broken bones." Chuckling sadly at his son's quivering lip and downcast eyes, the detective gently lowered the little boy's arm and rested it atop his small towel-covered leg. "That's a good thing, Hamish," he reassured, taking Hamish's good hand in his own and giving it a squeeze.

Sniffling, Hamish merely scowled at his injured wrist. "I be 'kay, Daddy?"

"You will be perfectly fine, my love. Now. How about you let me have a look at the rest of you, hmm? Where else hurts?"

"Here is ouch, Daddy." Keeping his hand settled safely under the warmth of his father's, Hamish lifted his chin and made a sort of humming sound.

"What's… Ah. I see." Sherlock frowned slightly when he saw that the skin just to the left of Hamish's chin had broken, and there was a small amount of blood that had trickled and traveled down the curve of the little boy's jaw. "Oh, Hamish, I'm sorry," the detective breathed, feeling a strange, rather paralyzing, tightness begin to coil in his chest at the occurrence that he'd never seen Hamish's blood. He wasn't supposed to. "Does it hurt?"

"Tiny bit, Daddy."

"Tiny bit… Yes… I'm sorry, Hamish."

"Why is be sorry, Daddy? No did," Hamish whispered earnestly.

"But you're hurt. And I should have been watching. My fault by association," Sherlock muttered, licking his thumb and frantically trying to wipe away the drying traces of dark red blood.

"No is, Daddy," Hamish responded, eyes deep with fret and worry at the panicked movement of his father's fingers. "Daddy!" he whispered loudly, pulling his head back and taking a gentle hold of his father's frantic fingers. "Is be 'kay, Daddy?" he whispered, lowering their hands onto his towel-clad pa. "What is be wrong?"

"You're hurt and… Bleeding," Sherlock whispered, smiling sadly down at Hamish's hands clasping his own.

"No is… Good, Daddy?" the little boy asked, not understanding.

"No, it's not good, love. We prefer to keep this, " a gentle, barely-there kiss to the cut, "inside… Yes?"

"But…" Hamish clearly seemed to be thinking very hard; his light brows were drawn together, his lips pressed together in a fashion so similar to his father's that the detective, himself could help but smile. "Daddy has," the little boy tried, unable to phrase his words quite the way he wanted, before pointing to his chin as further explanation.

"Oh. You mean I get hurt and bleed, too?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Ah. Right, I see. Well, I'm much older than you and far less valuable," Sherlock explained with a matter-of-fact smile. "See? You, however, are far more precious, and as such should be protected more. You're far more important than I, Hamish, and that's why it makes me sad to see this. It doesn't matter if I get hurt, but you," Sherlock accentuated the statement with by pressing his fingertip gently into Hamish's tiny chest, "matter far more, so it's much worse when you get hurt… Oh, Hamish, what on earth is the matter?" the detective chuckled upon seeing the completely and utterly shocked look on his son's face.

"Say no is matter, Daddy," Hamish gasped, gripping onto the fingers his father had still placed in his lap.

"Well, yes."

"But… Matter at me, Daddy! No could be 'kay if Daddy got hurt," the little boy continued, gaze traveling back and forth in frantic movements across the floor, as if to even entertain the thought of such a thing was positively terrifying. "Hame not be good more, Daddy. Bad to say," he concluded, scolding his father for even saying such a thing with a scowl. "No is good say. Bad. Not say. Hame 'ove an' need, so is be not good to get ouch at Daddy. Bad. Hame need, Daddy."

Sherlock was positively beaming, with a warmth beginning to flutter beneath the skin of his abdomen upon feeling so loved, so needed. He'd never felt like he actually had someone depending on him; someone to miss him if he was ever gone. And, he had to admit to himself, it felt quite nice to know Hamish felt so strongly and adamantly about his safety and well-being.

"Well, then… You have my promise: I will most certainly try to do my best at staying as safe as possible, hmm? Yes?"

"Oh," the little boy breathed in relief, slumping back against the mess of scattered nothingness behind him. "Good, Daddy." The look of sheer worry and horror quickly replaced with a precious smile, Hamish uttered a kind of hum and then gave his father's much-larger hand a tiny pat with his own. "Good."

"I'm glad you think so," Sherlock laughed heartily, suddenly finding so much joy in situation, he'd nearly forgotten the task at hand. "Now," he chuckled, and smiling, leaned forward to once again examine the cut on Hamish's chin, which, without the blood surrounding it, seemed much less severe. "Oh," he tsked. "I think we can easily take care of this, hmm?" With a reassuring smile, Sherlock gave Hamish a gentle pat on the knee. "Oh, come here, you precious thing." Unable to shake the warmth still dancing and blooming through his chest, the detective reached forward, and minding his son's hurt wrist, gathered the little boy into his arms. "Let's find us a plaster for that cut, and then maybe some sort of wrapping for your wrist, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy." Quite content once again the whole situation, Hamish allowed his head to rest heavily against Sherlock's shoulder as he was carried about the kitchen while the detective searched for the bandages

"Ah! Finally! Here we are." With a reassuring smile, Sherlock strode into the sitting room and set Hamish down on the couch. "My goodness, you are still soaking wet, aren't you?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish giggled weakly, managing a smile for the detective who had now kneeling down in front of him.

"Well. First things first. Let's take care of that wrist." Though he knew the pain was probably now gone, Sherlock knew his son would be more at ease if he wrapped it anyway. "Doing all right, love?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Good. Now, I'm just going to wrap this around your wrist, all right?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

"There's my boy."

 

 

 

 

"There," Sherlock hummed as he tenderly pressed the plaster of choice (Thomas the Tank, of course) over the tiny gash of broken skin on Hamish's chin. "And, I do believe, you brave sir, are done."

Sniffling, though his tears were mostly gone, Hamish gave a pitiful hum as he stared at his wrapped wrist.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, taking a seat on the couch next to his much-smaller son and crossing his legs. "Come along, old fellow. What's the matter?"

Thinking, Hamish quirked his lips to the side, an action which sent a paternal flutter of love down Sherlock's spine. The little boy's gaze traveled around the floor and then up to his father's lighter shade of eyes, and then eventually settled on his crossed legs. With a small whisper of something Sherlock couldn't quite make out, Hamish shoved himself as far back on the couch as he could, and with a tiny grunt and a glance towards his father's crossed legs once again, the small boy attempted to mimic the position, though he could only manage to cross his ankles. "Is good, Daddy," he stated with a small nod of his head, scooting himself so he was nestled safely against the detective's side, tiny legs almost crossed.

Beaming with pride and love, Sherlock bent down and over and pressed a soft kiss to his son's still-wet hair, chuckling into the silky curls. "Oh, how I do adore you," he laughed, glancing once again at Hamish's towel-clad crossed ankles, and then to his own long, crossed limbs. "You are simply precious."

"Is good, Daddy?" the little boy giggled half-heartedly into his father's waist, burying himself in the detective's suit.

"It's very good. Being precious and terribly fascinating is a very good thing, love. As are you. A very good thing, I mean," Sherlock answered with a playful smirk. Smiling and unable to resist taking a picture of his son's almost-crossed legs, Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone, took the snap, and then wrapped an arm around Hamish. "Come on. How about we get you out of that towel, hmm? And then off to Molly's?"

"'Es, Daddy." All trepidation clearly forgotten, Hamish, smiling, crawled atop Sherlock's legs, and, haphazardly brushing a few curls away from the detective's forehead, planted an incredibly tender kiss to the tip of his father's nose. "Ta, Daddy," he whispered with a smile.

"You, my love, are most certainly welcome."

With a soft, rather beautiful, bell-like giggle, Hamish slid off both his father's legs and the couch, and in the process, managed to slide out of his towel, as well.

"Oh, I swear, Hamish!" Sherlock groaned dramatically as he picked up the discarded towel and followed the naked little boy into his room, where he had plopped himself down on the bed. "You are going to be the death of me!"

"What?" An incredibly alarmed, hurt, fearful, and all around upset look briefly creased Hamish's soft features, giving Sherlock a laugh.

"No is fun, Daddy!" Hamish gasped, appalled by the thought. "Hame not ever be kill, Daddy!"

"Oh." Sobering, and realizing his son had taken the literal meaning, Sherlock quickly gave the little boy a smile. "Well of course you couldn't. I was only joking. Besides, what happens if I get you first?" An outfit in hand, the detective lunged forward and began tickling Hamish while simultaneously managing to get him dressed. "Ah!" he cried triumphantly. "Finally! My… Goodness, you."

Giggling, Hamish stood on the bed, nearly falling over from the speed with which he stood, and more or less bounced his way to to the detective's standing form. "Mmm. Daddy," he half-giggled, half-sighed as he placed a hand to either side of Sherlock's sculpted cheeks. "Daddy…"

"Mmm. Oh, what am i going to do with you, Hamish?" the detective chuckled.

"Uhm… At Molly?"

A laugh. "Perfect."

 

 

 

"Oh, Rose, who do you think this is—Oh. Hamish, darling," Molly crooned as she opened the door to Sherlock, only to find Hamish on his hip, a blue plaster standing out against his pale skin. "What on earth happened—" Molly stopped as she was met with a raised brow from Sherlock which clearly suggested no question were to be asked. "Ah, uh. Nevermind, love. Do come in!"

"Thank you." Dropping his brow and heaving a sigh of relief, Sherlock placed Hamish on the ground and guided him into Molly's quaint flat.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Where is be baby Rose?"

"Ah," the pathologist chuckled. "She's over there in her play pen, see?" Sherlock had to refrain from rolling his eyes.

"Oh. Mildly confused, and unused to Molly's flat, Hamish took a hesitant, tiny step around a corner. "Rose!" Sherlock could hear his son's tiny footfalls padding into Molly's sitting room, followed closely by a squeal of happiness from Rose.

"So, uhh… What happened to his…" Molly made a vague gesture to her chin.

"He fell." Eyes downcast, Sherlock gently brushed past the pathologist, promptly ending that conversation.

"Okay."

"Hamish?"

"What? Oh! Daddy!" Beaming, Hamish ran over, grabbed ahold of his father's hand, and tugged the detective to where Rose was sitting. "Look at Rose, Daddy!"

"Yes, she's quite lovely, isn't she?"

"Mmm, Daddy."

"Yes… Right, well, I'm afraid I've got to be off, Hamish. So a goodbye hug and a kiss, if I may?"

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy!" With a preciously sweet hum that sounded oddly like, "ove you, Daddy," Hamish wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, having to go on tiptoe to do so, and then pressed a soft kiss to the detective's jaw.

"Mmm. Thank you, Hamish." A lingering kiss to the temple. "Right, then." Knowing that if he didn't leave now, he might never, Sherlock pressed another quick kiss to Hamish's cheek, squeezed him close, and then stood. "Go on, then. Say hell to Rose for me, and umm…" Sherlock lowered is voice to a whisper. "Give Molly a kiss for me."

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled.

"Very good." Smiling, Sherlock quickly thanked Molly, who was watching fondly from the doorway, and then left her flat, pulling out his mobile. "Right, then."

To: John Watson at 2:34 p.m.

Done. Come to flat. Bring sheets.

SH

 

 

 

"Did you bring them?"

"Yes, I brought them," John chuckled as he entered the flat.

"Good. Bring them up." Paying no heed to his friend's clearly over-full arms, Sherlock quickly strode up the stairs to the doctor's old room, taking them two at a time, and leaving John to struggle on his own.

"Ugh!" Scowling at both the large package containing the requested sheets, and at his previous flat mate, John dropped the plastic container on the ground and then, more gently, placed down the other many bags slung over his arms.

"Ah. Thank you," Sherlock rumbled from where he was now crouched on the ground. With slender fingers, which to John seemed as if they had gotten impossibly thinner, the detective reached over and dragged the plastic package over to him. "Oh, these are simply perfect," he murmured as he unzipped the plastic and pulled out a bit of the cover. "Thank you."

"Yeah, of course." Smiling, and feeling oddly proud at the rare praise, John's gaze turned to the room, and the smile quickly slipped from his face. "You finished it," he stated blankly and with a slight frown.

"What? Oh. Yes. I did a bit of work on it this past week, though last night was when I really more or less finished it; it was late, I couldn't sleep, so I finished it. Logical."

"But… Nevermind."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "What, John?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Well it's obviously not nothing." Leaving the covers, Sherlock stood and strode over to his friend. "What… Ah. You're disappointed."

"Oh, you reckon?" John drawled sarcastically, fixing the detective with a scowling frown. "This was supposed to be our thing. Our thing for Hamish. Something to include me, too. Could you not have found something else to do last night, other than finish the project which was supposed to be ours for him?"

"Well, my apologies, John. I didn't realize it would affect you this much."

"Well, maybe you should have thought about that. I just… You don't understand it, do you?"

"Obviously not," Sherlock huffed, getting quite frustrated and annoyed with the bickering. He glanced towards the door, expecting Hamish to walk in on them, and shush them, as he had almost always done in the past when they would bicker. But, remembering that Hamish was at Molly's, the detective gave a shake of his head, and returned to John, whose face was flushing a dark pink.

"I need something, too, Sherlock," John explained with an exasperated sigh.

"I don't understand."

"You have him every day, all to yourself. I don't get to see him as often, Sherlock. So I need something besides a phone call to show him I haven't forgotten him. That's what this," a gesture to the room, "was supposed to be. Sherlock? Bloody hell! Sherlock, I need something to connect with him!"

"Well, pardon me John, but it hasn't exactly been easy for me either!" Sherlock countered, glaring. "What do you think it's like, John? Going from a two-parent household to a one-parent? I've put cases on hold, I've made sacrifices, too, so that I won't have to send Hamish to a nursery or babysitter every day; so that I might actually see and communicate with him during the day. It's not exactly been all sunshine on my end of the bargain, either! And how do you think I feel, having to watch while Hamish suffers, knowing that I can do nothing to stop or help it, but be there and attempt to sooth him? You're the one who left, John."

"Well—what about me and—and how I have—have…" The fight quickly draining from him, John released a breath. "I… I just miss him, that's all." Pressing his lips into a tight line, John turned his back and covered his eyes with one hand, simultaneously kneading his fingertips into his forehead.

"Perhaps it's you, John, that needs him more," Sherlock suggested softly, watching his friend with careful eyes, and gauging the doctor's reaction for any signs of hostility. "You have my sincerest apologies. I did not understand the extent of the sentimental attachment you had to the room. If you would like…"

Wiping at the moist pool that had formed under his eyes, John turned to see that Sherlock was holding out the covers in one of his hands.

"It's really the last thing before the room's done, so…" Sherlock managed a small half-smile.

Realizing this was his friend's way of saying he was sorry, and that the offering of the blanket was a sort of peace offering, John gave a weak chuckle, understanding that this was the best Sherlock was probably capable of offering by ways of apology. "Thanks." Returning the smile, John took the blue Thomas the Tank Engine sheets from his friend's hand, and ran them through his fingers. "How is he, Sherlock?" he asked, not meeting the detective's gaze.

"He's doing much better. He does miss you, of course, as is to be expected. But we've moved past the mourning period, I do believe. He's thriving in terms of understanding and motor skills, though I fear his speech may be a bit delayed, though we've been working quite frequently on—"

"Sherlock."

"Oh. What?"

"He's perfect," John whispered with a smile to the blanket in his fingers. "He is developing beautifully."

"Yes. Yes, he is… He's so receptive, John. He understands the emotions of others around him, especially myself, far better than I could ever hope to. He's quite exceptional… And, if it's any consolation, you, or rather your name, has been added to his prestigious collection of cars."

"Oh?" John laughed, finally meeting his former flat mate's gaze. "I've made it that far in his list of important people, have I?"

"Oh, yes. You're now up with the likes of Thomas and Peter."

The two friend's shared one of the first tense-free laughs they'd had since the wedding.

"Well… Glad to know I've not been forgotten," John sighed, still smiling as he glanced around the nearly-completed room.

"Never. Now. The covers. If you would; the bareness of the bed is quite distressing me."

"Ah. Of course it is." With a rather unbelieving shake of his head, John moved past the detective and knelt down by the side of the tiny bed. "Here we are, Hame," he chuckled, smiling as he placed the Thomas covers over the white sheets already tucked into the bed, and began folding it in the way he'd been taught in the army, knowing that though Sherlock instantly saw and recognized the folds, the detective was not going to say anything. "Is that satisfactory to your perfectionist requirements?" the doctor asked with a hint of sarcasm.

Quirking his lips, Sherlock squinted slightly at the folded covers before smiling. "Perfectly acceptable."

"Oh, good."

"Yes. Now, then. For the final touches; decorations." Sherlock quickly grabbed the many bags scattered about the freshly-cleaned floor. "Here you are," he stated with a content smile, handing the shopping to John.

"Wait. Why are you giving them to me?"

"You wanted to be a part of it all, you can do the decorating."

"And?"

"… And you live with a woman. You… Understand… These things… This..." A vague gesture to the room. "Yes. Valid. Go on, then." Sherlock promptly shoved the bags of decorations to John, eyes expectant. "You've always been the more artistic one. I'm critical, you're… Not." With a smile and a nod, Sherlock strode from the room. John could hear the detective's footsteps taking the stairs two at a time as he traveled back down them.

Smiling and with a chuckle, John se the bags on the ground, keeping one in his hand, and reached in, pulling out a letter. "H" John couldn't help but grin to himself, as he realized that this was the one bag in which Sherlock had bought the times it contained. Keeping the letter in his hand, the doctor gazed in, and confirmed his suspicions when he found that the remaining letters would spell, "Hamish."

"And you say I'm the artistic one." With a lighthearted scoff, John pulled the letters into his hands, and turned to a shelf, one resting just above and parallel to the tiny bed. "You big softie."

 

 

 

Finished with the decorations, and quite pleased with himself at the result, John skipped down the stairs, and turned into the sitting room, expecting to find Sherlock seated with his computer. When he found no traces of the detective, John made to turn into the kitchen, but paused when he saw a flash of red dash across his vision.

Confused as to what the source could be, John took a step closer to the couch and saw that it was a first aid kit. And open first aid kit, as well as a few… Bloody napkins. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"What's this?"

"What's—Oh. Yes. We had a bit of an accident today."

Frown deepening, and with creases forming where his brows had tugged together, John turned his attention from the bright red to Sherlock's form.

"What kind of accident?" he asked in a suspiciously calm voice.

"Hamish had a little fall… From the tub, I'm afraid. He'd attempted to crawl over the side, and slipped in the process. He landed funny on his wrist, though as far as I could tell it was not even a sprain, and then broke open a bit of skin by his chin. That's why there's… Bloody tissues. Apologies, I…" Instantly regretting having not cleaned the mess and evidence of what he was soon realizing was a mistake on his part, Sherlock quickly hurried past John's oddly-quite form, and gathered the red items into his arms, depositing them in the kitchen.

"Are you sure he fell?" John murmured quietly, not bothering to move his gaze from where he was staring at his chair.

"Yes, of course I… John?" Realization flashed across Sherlock's steel-grey eyes. "You think... John, you think I hurt him?"

"You have a tendency to lose your temper," John murmured, knowing the words he was speaking were utter rubbish, and hating himself for having uttered them. "I… Oh. Oh my… God, Sherlock, I'm…" Shaking himself back into reality, John's gaze left his old chair and traveled to meet his former flat mate's, instantly regretting the possibly horrid thing he'd suggested upon seeing the utter shock and impossible hurt storming behind Sherlock's ever-changing eyes. "How could… Sherlock, I didn't mean that, I swear. Bloody hell, what's wrong with me, I know you would never—could never—"

"You thought I hurt him," Sherlock merely repeated, frozen with shock. "How could you…"

"Sherlock. It was wrong of me to have even thought it. I am so sorry. It's just… God, why can't I just cope and deal with it, Sherlock? What's wrong with me? Why am… Bloody hell, and now I'm attacking you, even though I know how wonderful of a parent you are to Hamish! I just can't deal with the separation, myself." Releasing a sigh, John collapsed onto the couch, staring, ashamed at the ground.

Sherlock merely stared at his friend's rather pathetic-looking form, frowning with confusion at the conflicting emotions he was feeling. Deciding to do what John would suggest doing, the detective unclasped his tense fingers from behind him and took an awkward seat next to the doctor. "I knew you didn't mean it. It was just… Quite a shock to even entertain such a horrible idea… He did fall, you know… And though I didn't cause the fall, per se, I certainly could have done more to prevent it; I was busy getting a towel. I could have, and should have been watching him."

"Sherlock, you were getting his towels, just like we always do at bath time. There's no reason to blame yourself. He's all right, I take it?"

"Oh, yes. He's quite chipper now, actually. And really, the cut on his chin looked much worse than it actually was," Sherlock chuckled, smiling fondly at the thought of Hamish's tiny form sitting cross-legged next to me. "Oh." Remembering he'd taken a picture, Sherlock pulled out his phone. "Here." He passed the mobile to John.

"What's… Oh. Aw, look at that." Laughing aloud at the terribly adorable picture of Hamish's towel-clad, almost-crossed legs, right next to his father's long limbs, John merely smiled at the boy—his little man. "That's quite a cute sight," he chuckled, passing the mobile back.

"It is, isn't it? He seemed quite determined."

"Mmm, yes… I am sorry, Sherlock."

"I know. Sentiment. See why I try to avoid it?"

A laugh. "Yes. It's quite a bloody awful way to feel, isn't it?"

"Quite. Hence my general avoidance."

"Mmm."

"Right… Well… Come on. Let's go get Hamish. He'll be quite excited and surprised to see you; he was under the impression were were out solving cases all day, and I think we all could use the remedy of his smile, hmm?"

 

 

 

"John!" Instantly deserting Rose, Hamish quickly dropped the toy he'd had in his hand and dashed toward the doctor, wrapping his arms around his leg.

"Hey there, little man! How are you?" John asked, picking his tiny flat mate up and wrapping him in a hug, enjoying the bittersweet feel of the the little boy in his arms.

"Good, John. Play at baby Rose!"

"Yes, I can see that!"

"Mmm… Miss, John." Smiling, Hamish quickly buried his face in the collar of John's jumper.

"Thank you very much, Molly," Sherlock thanked, picking up Hamish's nappy bag.

"You're most certainly welcome. He was a delight."

"Mmm. Yes… Thank you."

 

 

 

John would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed when the three of them got into a cab and Hamish almost instantly crawled into Sherlock's lap and began animatedly describing his day to the detective.

Steeling himself, John knew that he would just have to accept that he was no longer a part of their routine anymore; he'd been written out, so to speak. And Sherlock was right; he'd been the one who had left. It was only fair he deal with the consequences.

"Hamish?"

"Hmm, Daddy?"

"I think John may be looking a little lonely. Why don't you go tell him about your day and see if you can't cheer him up?" Sherlock suggested quietly, giving his son a playful wink.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Giggling, Hamish crawled across the cab, with his father's hand on his back the entire way, carefully analyzing the road in case he should need to act in a moment's notice, and into John's lap. "He'o, John."

"Oh. Hello, little man. Long time, no see, hmm?"

"What is, John?"

"Nothing, Hame. Nothing," John murmured, grinning at the little being sitting on his legs.

 

 

 

"Right, now. Keep those hands over your eyes, all right?" Sherlock informed Hamish excitedly, wrapping his hand around one of the little boy's, and allowing John to do the same with the other. "We're going to guide you up the stairs, all right? And no peeking."

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled, bouncing up and down with excitement.

"Right, then. Here we go."

Sherlock and John carefully led Hamish up the stairs to what had been John's room. "Right…" Sherlock carefully pushed open the door, positioned his son in the entryway, and then released his smaller hand, with John quickly following suit. "Go on. Have a look."

With a little hum of excitement, Hamish removed his hands from his closed eyes and his mouth quickly fell open at the sight in front of him. "Tom!" he called, quickly rushing forward and toddling into the room, gaping at his surroundings. "Daddy! Is… Tom! All! What is, Daddy?"

"This, Hamish, is your room."

Hamish quite literally froze his pacing and toddling to turn and gape between Sherlock and John, who were both leaning against the frame of the doorway. "Is mine, Daddy?" He hurried over to the bed, crawled on top and touched the sheets.

"Yes. All yours. And guess what?"

"What, Daddy?" the little boy sighed breathlessly.

"John did all of this for you," Sherlock gestured to the blue walls with Thomas the Tank Engine wallpaper, and the many shelves decorated in various knick-knacks.

"Did, John?"

"Well… Uhm—"

"Of course he did," Sherlock inputted, striding over to the bed and scooping Hamish playfully into his arms so as to give him a better view of the taller shelves. "See that?"

"Peter!"

"Yes, it is very much like Peter the Rabbit, isn't it? And there… There we've got some cars."

"Play?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Those cars are for decoration; they're there to look pretty."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy. And is mine?" The little boy pointed towards the bed, which he was clearly most excited about.

"Yes! And, if you'd like, you can have a go at sleeping in it tonight. What do you say?"

"'Es!" Hamish squealed immediately, clapping his tiny hands together in sheer joy. "Oh, John! John! Ta, John!" Sherlock quickly transferred his son into the doctor's waiting arms.

"Oh, John. Ta," the little boy whispered into John's rather stubbly jaw. "Best tres'tent. Most 'etter."

"Well, I'm glad you think so," the doctor chuckled, pressing a kiss to his tiny flat mate's cheek. "You're most welcome, bud. It was my utmost pleasure… Do you like it?"

"I 'ove it, John! Is am… am'z… Daddy?"

"That's it, love. You can do it. Keep trying. Amaz…"

"Amaze'ming!"

"Very good!" John and Sherlock chimed in together, causing both to laugh.

"Oh, I'm just glad you like it."

"I 'ove… Lot, John."

"Good… Mmm. I love you, Hame."

"I 'ove, John."

"I know you do, Hamish… I know you do."

"Mmm."

 

 

 

That night, as a way of celebration, the trio had dinner at Angelo's, much to the man's sheer delight. John left shortly after, with much reluctance, and many hugs and kisses from Hamish.

"Right, then. You sleep well, all right? Now, you've got your night light on, okay? And you have Peter, right?" Sherlock asked gently as he tucked Hamish into his new bed, wrapping the Thomas covers tightly around his little body.

"'Es, Daddy," he whispered, sounding rather frightened now the lights had been switched off.

"Good. I'm going to leave the door open, all right? Now, if you need anything and don't know what to do, just yell down the stairs for me and I'll come up… Mmm. My big boy." Smiling in a bittersweet way, Sherlock pressed a kiss to his son's forehead. "Sleep well, love. And remember, I'm just downstairs, all right?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

"There's my good boy. May I have a kiss?"

"'Es." With a tiny, if not desperate, smile, Hamish leaned up, while his father leaned down and planted a soft kiss to the dip in one of the detective's cheeks. "Nigh' night, Daddy. 'Ove."

"I love you, too, as well, Hamish. You sleep well… Remember: I'm just downstairs."

"Mmm-hmm."

With a reassuring smile, and a strange tension in his chest, Sherlock reluctantly slipped from the room, letting his fingertips linger on the doorknob. He paused on the stairs, and could hear Hamish talking to, he assumed, Peter, and the sound of rustling sheets. "Mmm." With a firm nod of his head, Sherlock carefully descended the stairs and made his way into his now-empty bedroom.

Feeling the nagging and annoying (and recently familiar) pull of exhaustion, the detective slipped out of his suit jacket and pants, and pulled on a pair of pajama trousers before crawling into the empty bed, enjoying the comfort it provides for his tiredness… Though Sherlock was rather disappointed when that constriction in his chest ceased to disappear.

Closing his eyes, and desperately attempting to ignore how far away Hamish felt from his protective grasp, Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed the tendrils of exhaustion to grasp and pull him into the darkness of sleep.

 

 

 

Several hours further into the night, Sherlock awoke to the sound of tiny footfalls padding into his room. A few moments later, the detective could hear the sound of his sheets moving behind him and then a tiny grunt of effort, the light sound of which made him smile.

There was a small sigh, and then a relieved, "Daddy." Sherlock could feel his son burrowing under the covers and then suddenly there was a tiny form snuggling against the curve of his spine.

Smiling to himself, the detective reached a hand back, and not entirely conscious, gave his equally tired son a soft pat on the leg. "Goodnight, Hamish."

"Mmm-hmm."


	45. Sad Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So sorry for the late update! Recently had a death in the family just last week, and unfortunately that kind of screwed everything up! Please forgive! I hope this chapter can start to make up for it! Homework and extra-curriculars are a bit overwhelming and crazy right now, so just as a warning: expect irregular updates for a while. I'm very sorry, but life is pretty crazy for me right now! =) I wish it wasn't so, but I hope you all understand. Thank you so much! =)
> 
> To all who are reading, giving kudos, following, and commenting: THANK YOU. Truly, you all are my motivation and inspiration and everything! Thank you so very much, I appreciate all you do! Please enjoy, and once again, I apologize for the delay!

"Hamish, you need to go to bed."

"No 'ease."

"Yes, please."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, _'ease_?"

"This is not a discussion. _And_ , just for future reference, emphasis on the 'please' does not have much affect," Sherlock chuckled as he swung Hamish over his shoulder and began toting him back up the stairs to his new room.

"Oh. But no want, Daddy," the little boy sighed in defeat as he buried a hand in his father's curls and allowed his body to go limp against the detective's shoulder.

"I understand that. But you need to start to sleep in your own room."

" _Why_ need, Daddy?" Hamish mumbled with a yawn.

Debating his son's question, Sherlock paused on the landing to the little boy's new room. "Hmm. I don't really know, actually… Ask John."

"Daddy," Hamish giggled, with a hint of exasperation feeling its way into his tiny voice. Sherlock merely chuckled in response, and set Hamish down in his bed, tucking him under the covers. "At least try for me, all right?"

"Can't not do, Daddy."

"Well, why ever not?"

"Is black."

"You mean dark?"

"Uh-hmm."

"Well it was dark in my room, and you slept just fine in there."

"Oh. Is much scary, Daddy."

"What part?" Sherlock laughed, taking his son, who had conveniently crawled out from under the covers, and tucking him back under.

With a frustrated little grunt at having been discovered and returned to the confines of his covers, Hamish concluded being close to his father would be good enough for the time being. Heaving a sigh of defeat, the little boy delicately shoved his pillow away and laid his head against Sherlock's hip. "Is be long, Daddy," he tried to explain, not quite able to put his thoughts and grievances into words.

"What's long, Hamish?" the detective asked tenderly, carding a few slender fingers through his son's silky curls, a sensation he now couldn't imagine living without.

In response, Hamish merely pointed to the doorway. "Is be long, Daddy," he whispered again.

"Oh… Ah, yes, I see. It's a long ways downstairs?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Right. Well, I suppose we could—"

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"I can go get?"

"Of course." Sherlock stood, waiting as Hamish disentangled himself from the covers and then scooted his little self off the bed. "Come, Daddy."

"Of course." Sherlock smiled as he felt a tiny wrap itself inside of his own. "Lead the way."

Hamish carefully pulled his father through the doorway and then proceeded to hop down each and every step, keeping a careful hold of the detective's grounding fingers. The little boy then led Sherlock into the sitting room and over to the mantle. "Can have, Daddy?" he asked, pointing up to the wood. Sherlock turned his gaze in confusion to where his son was pointing, as that was usually where his skull resided. The detective frowned slightly when he was not met with the sight of his skull, but rather a picture of himself.

"When did that get there?" he asked Hamish, who merely shrugged contently in reply. "Well when did..." Sherlock studied the photograph and realized that it had been taken early in the morning, based on the angle of the sunlight streaming in the the window. He appeared to be sound asleep on the couch, one arm draped gracefully over his chest, as he was lying on his side. He was dressed in a white button-up and suit trousers, not unusually.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile when he glanced further down the photo and saw that Hamish, who looked to be a tad younger and smaller, was seated behind the curve of his thighs, playing with several of his long fingers. He was grinning at the camera in such a way that the detective couldn't help but mirror the smile. "Who took this, Hamish?" he asked, surprised he'd not noticed the photo before.

"John did took," the little boy declared proudly. "'Es... Can have, Daddy?" To emphasize his request, Hamish took his free hand and, despite his small size, made a grab for the photo and frame; his little fingers clenched and unclenched as he gazed happily at the picture.

"Well, yes of course. My apologies." Taking Hamish's outstretched hand, Sherlock gave the fingers a tiny squeeze and then grabbed the picture. He carefully took the back off and pulled the photo from the frame. "There you are." Smiling wistfully, the detective offered the photograph. 

"Mmm. Ta, Daddy," Hamish hummed. The little boy quickly took the picture in his chubby fingers and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's palm, as way of thanks.

Sherlock watched in amusement as Hamish toddled away, photograph in his clutches, and began to hop his way up the stairs with a few tiny grunts. Laughing to himself, Sherlock followed and watched as his son's much-smaller form began to make its little way up the stairs. 

"Oh! Careful," Sherlock chuckled as Hamish lost his balance and began to tumble backward. "There we are." The detective quickly reached forward and splayed his hand over his son's back, giving him a little shove forward to allow him to regain his balance.

With a sweet smile of his own, and for safety purposes, Hamish took ahold of Sherlock's thumb and finished his way up the stairs. "Ta, Daddy." Picture in hand, the little boy crawled under his covers, curled himself around the waxy paper, and heaved a content little sigh. 

"Better?" Sherlock murmured fondly as he slipped his hands into his pockets. 

"Lots be 'etter, Daddy," the little boy hummed with a tiny nod.

"Well, good. I am glad to hear it."

"Nigh' night 'tisses, Daddy?"

"Oh, _always _." Smiling, Sherlock took a step forward and planted a hand on the bed before leaning forward and pressing his lips to Hamish's curl-covered forehead. "Goodnight. Sleep well, hmm?"__

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy yawned as he fought to keep his eyes open.

"Mmm," Sherlock chuckled fondly. With a smile, the detective stroked a few fingers through his son's silky curls and then carefully, slowly backed away as he heard Hamish's breathing even out and watched his eyes slip shut.

Worrying his bottom lip and hoping that tonight would be the night Hamish actually slept, the detective left the room and practically tip-toed his way down the stairs. When he detected no sign of movement or consciousness, Sherlock grinned, pleased with himself, and went to his microscope to finish a case he'd been working on. "Right, then."

As he glanced into the lens, Sherlock tried desperately to ignore the exhaustion he could feel creeping into his veins. This would be the fifty-second hour he will have been up without rest.

Unfortunately, though, without John there, working cases was becoming more and more difficult; the only time Sherlock would have to completely devote his time to the cases would be through the night, as his all of his attention was focused on Hamish during the day. And, for the duration of the case, the process would only repeat itself, which resulted in endless tiresome days for the detective. He was finding that the lack of sleep, and devoting all of his time to cases, and trying to entertain Hamish was even more exhausting than he'd previously realized. It hadn't really occurred to him how much John helped out until the doctor was gone. 

When the pull of exhaustion became too prominent to ignore, Sherlock left his stool with a grumble and made himself a cup of coffee in the hope that it would wake him up.

As the detective was waiting, he heard a tiny squeak of the stairs. "Hamish?" he called in a warning tone. When no response came, but rather another creak, followed by another, Sherlock chuckled quietly (so Hamish would not hear and take it as encouragement), and then quickly poured his coffee, dropping in the three sugars.

Mug in hand, the detective sauntered into the entryway and gazed at the stairs, expecting to find Hamish daring a worried glance at him, or attempting to scurry back up to his room. What he found, however, was the little boy, his body resting over the span of three steps, sound asleep with his Thomas covers making a trail back up the rest of the stairs, up into his room behind him. Heaving a fond sigh, Sherlock transferred his mug to his left hand and then carefully scooped Hamish into his arms, which caused the little boy to shudder and stretch his small limbs for a brief moment, before settling back into the familiar hold of his father's arms.

"Shh. There now," Sherlock rumbled as he placed Hamish's tiny body back in the bed before quickly retrieving the covers. As he was placing the sheets over his body, the little boy stirred. "What be doing, Daddy?" he whispered, exhaustion lacing his tiny voice.

"Putting you back to bed," the detective chuckled."

"Oh. Why do, Daddy?"

"Because you climbed out."

"Oh. 'Kay... 'Es, t'ank-su, Daddy." Hamish then proceeded to roll himself out of the bed.

"Ah, ah. No thank you, little one."

"No t'ank you, Daddy."

"Exactly." With a smile, Sherlock gently tucked Hamish back under the covers.

"Oh. 'Kay, Da'ey." Too tired to protest, Hamish gave a tiny nod of his head, accompanied closely by a wide yawn.

"See? You're tired," Sherlock laughed as he pressed his lips to the tip of his son's nose.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Right. Goodnight," Sherlock rumbled with a whisper before silently letting himself from the room, and taking a much-needed sip of his coffee. "Right, then."

Mug in hand, the detective removed his jacket, pulled off his shirt, and stretched his long form out on the couch. He quickly grabbed his laptop and took several more sips of his caffeine-filled beverage. Hoping to make some headway in his newest case, which he had not yet found decent time to work on, Sherlock ignored the absence of his son's form snuggling against him, and the extremely loud silence as he entered the password to his computer. He hadn't had the heart to remove it yet, though he knew there was no longer anyone at the flat to attempt a guess anymore.

 

 

 

"Daddy... Daddy? Is up, Daddy?"

Sherlock was awoken by a loud whisper, undeniably his son's. Groaning as he opened his eyes and was met with a bright stream of light, the detective pressed a hand over his eyes and then tried to rub away the exhaustion there. He could hear a worried hum emit from where he assumed Hamish was, and then felt the little boy clamor his way onto the couch and then onto his thighs.

"Is up, Daddy?" he whispered loudly with a gentle prod to his father's bare waist.

"Unfortunately."

"What, Daddy?"

"Yes, I am up, Hamish," Sherlock murmured as he opened his eyes once again. 

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy. Good."

"What is?"

"Now is up. No I be 'lone."

"Alone? How long have you been up?" Sherlock asked worriedly, afraid he'd overslept and left Hamish to fend for himself for several hours. He could tell by the angle of sunlight, however, that it was still early. In fact, it was a rather ungodly hour.

Hamish merely shrugged happily in response. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the content little grin on his son's lips. "Come here." With a wide yawn, the detective patted his chest and carefully placed his laptop, which had miraculously not fallen off while he slept, on the ground. 

Giggling at the sound of his father's yawn, Hamish climbed atop Sherlock's chest and plopped himself down. "Oh. Daddy?" he asked when he realized that the bare skin of his legs were also touching bare skin. 

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock responded tiredly. With another yawn, the detective tried to blink away the tears clouding his vision.

"Why is not on?"

"Why am I not... Oh! Why do I not have a shirt on?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish giggled in delight, not even noticing as he began to trace the delicate contours of his father's abdomen with a few tiny fingers.

"Well, that's an excellent inquiry, Hamish. I suppose I was just hot, or tired... Truly, I think I just felt like taking it off, and was quite tired," the detective added with a chuckle.

"Oh, was hot, Daddy?" Hamish asked, as that was really one of the only parts of the explanation he had understood fully.

"Sure, that's fine," Sherlock laughed. With a warm smile the detective gently brushed a few stray curls away from the little boy's forehead and then tickled behind his small ear.

"Daddy!" With a bell-like laugh, Hamish placed a tiny hand to Sherlock's lips. "Daddy?" he sighed, attempting to catch his breath. 

"Yes, love?"

"I can hug?"

"Oh." Sherlock's brows tugged together at Hamish's question. "Of course you can, Hamish. You never need to ask me for a hug, all right? I will gladly give them whenever you want."

"'Kay, Daddy." Hamish's voice had dropped to a whisper. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips and his dark green eyes seemed to grow impossibly more green. With a tiny sight of contentment, the little boy tucked himself under Sherlock's chin and into his arms.

The detective felt his heart twinge in his chest as it occurred to him that he'd not hugged his son in over a week; he'd been desperately trying to solve as many cases as possible, seeing as that was now their only source of income, that he'd really been too busy to spend the quality time he usually got with Hamish. With this thought, the detective pressed the little boy's smaller form even closer. "Oh, Hamish," he murmured into the little boy's curls. "You precious little thing."

 

 

 

Several days later, John arrived at 221B to find Sherlock, looking half-dead, seated on the floor and working on a puzzle with Hamish, who looked much more alive, energetic, and overall content with the whole situation.

"Long night?" the doctor joked with a smirk as he leaned against the doorway. John couldn't help but grin as he heard a tiny gasp of joy at the same time he saw Sherlock turn around to give him a glare that clearly spoke the words he could not currently say aloud.

"John! Daddy, is here John!" Hamish quickly began to run to the doctor as fast as his tiny legs would allow him to.

"Yes, I can see that. I'm glad one of us has the energy to greet him," Sherlock rumbled with a yawn.

Hamish stopped his toddling mid-step and almost fell down in the process, upon hearing the tone of his father's voice. And, despite his exhaustion, Sherlock's hand was out in a moment, catching and preventing his son's tumble with skilled fingers. 

"Oh. Daddy." Mission momentarily forgotten, Hamish hurried back to his father and wrapped his little arms firmly around the detective's neck. "Ta, Daddy." He pressed a soft kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, and then promptly started to giggle at the scratchy feeling of his father's stubble. "Has itch, Daddy," he laughed, giving the detective's jaw a pat, and then scratching at the stubble with his tiny fingernails. 

"Yes, I suppose I do need a shave, don't I?" Sherlock chuckled as he smiled under his son's delicate touch. 

"Well I could take him for a moment while you go freshen up."

"That... would be delightful." With a grateful groan, Sherlock stood, and, swinging Hamish onto his hip, pressed a sot kiss to the little boy's incredibly soft, chubby cheek.

"He'o John!" Hamish held onto the collar of Sherlock's shirt as he was carried over to and transferred into the arms of John. "Daddy say nee to save," he declared proudly before quickly reaching forward and pressing his fingers to Sherlock's cheek once again. "See, John?" he giggled delightfully. "Is itch. Feel?" 

"What? Oh! No, Hame, that's okay. I know what stubble feels like, bud."

"Oh. 'Kay, John. B-bye, Daddy. Go at ready."

"Yes, sir," Sherlock chuckled, giving the hand Hamish had pressed to his cheekbone a gentle pat, before quickly slipping away down the hall.

John could hear the familiar sound of the shower turning on as water noisily filled and travled through the pipes. "Well! How are you, my little man?" Grinning, John pressed a series of fun kisses all over Hamish's face. "Oh, I've missed you!"

"John!" the little boy half-giggled, half-sighed. "See last-er-day!"

"I saw you just yesterday?"

"'Es!"

"Well, I suppose you're right. It seems far longer than that, however."

"'Es, John... Oh! Come see!" The little boy more or less bounced his way out of the doctor's arms and then hurried over towards the couch. When it was clear he was supposed to follow, John laughed joyfully and then followed. 

"See, John!" Hamish quickly then pulled down the elastic of his tiny jeans, eyes twinkling with utter pride.

"Oh, uhh..." Not understanding, the doctor squatted down and examined what he was supposed to be seeing. "I'm afraid I don't..."

"Big boy pants!" Hamish explained, giving the pants a little tug for emphasis. "See, John? I is big! Has pants!"

"Oh... Oh! Oh, yes I see now! You mean you've started toilet training?"

"'Es! Is what Daddy say. But I is big!"

"Yes, yes! Oh, you're growing up so quickly!" Grinning, John quickly pulled Hamish's tiny form to his chest and wrapped him in a firm hug. "Oh, my goodness! And are you doing well?"

"'Es! I did one!"

"Ah, I see," John laughed, pressing a peck of a kiss to the little boy's curls. "Well, that's as good a start as any!"

"Mmm, John... I 'ove."

"I love you, too, little man."

 

 

 

Thirty minutes later, John found himself listening to Hamish give an extensive description of what he had done the past few days... Or at least, he assumed that was what was happening; he honestly couldn't understand many of the words. Though, what Hamish lacked in coherency, he most certainly made up for in adorableness. 

It was only when the little boy was about to launch into an entirely new conversation about what he and Sherlock had done together that John realized the detective was absent.

"Hey, Hame?"

"Hmm?"

"Why dont't we go check on Daddy, hmm? He's been gone a long while."

"Oh. 'Es, John... Where is?"

"I don't know; let's go find him."

"'Es."

Hamish quickly stood up and began hurrying away towards his father's room. Chuckling, John quickly followed suit and had caught up with Hamish in a few strides, just as the little boy was entering Sherlock's room. He quickly re-emerged and toddled back to the doctor.

"Shh, John," he whispered, tugging on the doctor's trousers. "Daddy seeping."

"Ah, I see." John carefully popped his head back into the room to find Sherlock, half-dressed in his robe and a pair of suit trousers, sound asleep on the bed. His long limbs splayed out every whic way, covering the bed, and his hair still appeared to be wet.

"John?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"Can give Daddy a nigh' night kiss? Did not go nigh' night last."

"You mean Daddy didn't get any sleep last night?"

"No, John."

"Oh... Well of course you can give him a good night kiss. Come here." With a warm smile, John scooped Hamish into his arms and carefully crept towards the bed. He lifted the little boy up and then angled him down, aligning his smaller head with Sherlock's.

"Get seep, Daddy," Hamish whispered as he pressed a tiny kiss to the detective's ear. John noticed his friend's fingers subconsciously curl and uncurl against where they were resting on the sheets.

"'Kay, John. Daddy is be good."

"Good." John placed Hamish back on the ground, and then turned back to his former flat mate--who was actually snoring! "Poor git," the doctor practically giggled.

"What is say, John?"

"What? Oh--oh! Nothing, Hame." Smiling, the doctor carefully shut the door.

 

 

 

Sherlock emerged some forty-five minutes later, fully dressed, clean shaven, and looking much better than before.

"Daddy! Is 'etter?"

"Mmm. Much!" Sherlock exclaimed with his usual fervor. The detective squatted down in front of Hamish. "I'll be back in a little while, all right, Hamish? I've got to go to St. Bart's, remember?"

"'Es. Is gone, Daddy," the little boy sighed in response, sounding almost sad.

"What's gone, love?"

"Is gone." As further explanation, Hamish placed his palms to Sherlock's alabaster cheeks, and delicately curled and uncurled his fingers. "All gone."

"Oh," Sherlock chuckled in understanding. "Yes... All gone," he echoed.

"Is soft, Daddy."

John and Sherlock quickly exchanged a smile. "Yes, I suppose... But not as soft as yours!" With a heart, bartione laugh, the detective lunged forward and tickled Hamish's face with his lips. "Mwah! You be good for John now, all right?"

"'Es, Daddy!"

"Very good. Now, I do believe you owe me something."

"Mmm-hmm. A 'tiss an' hug." With a precious smile teasing the corners of his lips, Hamish gave Sherlock a hug around the waist and then pressed a kiss to the detective's cheek. "B-bye. I 'ove."

"Love you, too, Hamish. Be back soon. John?" The doctor hurried over. "I thought you should know we've started toilet training, so--"

"Yes, I know; believe me, I've been told all about it," John chuckled.

"Ah, excellent. Well, he's not quite got the hang of it yet, as is to be expected, so we've been making "safety checks" at least once every hour. Also, be sure to asked him every thirty minutes or so if he needs to go, as he tends to forget. Do you know the whole "toilet-training" system works?"

"Sure, yeah, of course."

"Excellent. Then there should be nothing further from me. Good. I'm off. Hamish? Do you want me to say hello to Molly for you?"

"He'o Molly!"

"... Close enough," Sherlock chuckled fondly. The detective quickly grabbed his coat, draped his gracefully over his shoulders and then, stealing one last glance towards Hamish, was gliding down the stairs. 

"Well, then!" John sighed when he heard the door close. "Tell me, Hamish... Do you know how the system of toilet training works?"

Hamish merely looked at him with a look so similar to his father that John couldn't help but laugh. "I'll take that as a yes."

 

 

 

Sherlock's time spent at St. Bart's ended up lasting a bit longer than usual. As a result, John decided he'd sit down and watch a movie of Hamish's choice with him. They were currently watching Planet Earth, curled up on the couch together, with one of the little boy's hands buried in the doctor's warm jumper, and John's legs created a sort of basket for Hamish to sit in, which the small boy seemed quite content with. 

As the show went to commercial on the telly, John, who had been absently playing with several of Hamish's tiny toes, decided to ask a question he'd been musing about all evening. "Hamish?"

"'Es, John?"

"How have you and Daddy been doing? You know... since I left?"

"Is 'kay, John. Just sad."

The doctor frowned. "What's sad, bud?"

"Daddy... An' ah'cose Daddy have sad, Hame get."

"Why is Daddy sad."

"Miss John, John. Has sad." Hamish pointed to his chest. 

"In his heart?"

"Mmm-hmm. An' has sad." Now he pointed to his eyes.

"Sad eyes..." For the first time, John finally understood the deeper understanding Hamish had of human nature. He'd not yet experienced it the way Sherlock always seemed to. But now, he understood what the detective had meant... Hamish saw things in human beings, things most adults would have missed. Only a child so innocent as Hamish could view the world, and the people in it, with such deep understanding. And it was, as Sherlock had mentioned, truly amazing. He'd seen the sadness in his father's eyes...

"Are you sad?"

"Ah'ties."

"Sometimes?"

"'Es... I give 'tisses at Daddy... An' no sad... 'Tisses an' hugs have help, John," Hamish whispered, so incredibly serious, that the doctor couldn't help but smile.

"You give Daddy hugs and kisses when he's sad?"

"'Es, John. Ah'cose no like."

"Because you don't like it when he's sad..."

"'Es."

"And what happens after you give him hugs and kisses, Hame?"

"Has happy. Daddy tell Hame 'ove an' have smile."

"Has a smile... You're simply wonderful, Hamish, do you know that?"

"'Es, John. Daddy say lot. But I not know why say," Hamish answered softly, and with a tiny smile. "John?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"No like sad Daddy."

The doctor paused. "I know you don't... Come here, little man."

Hamish crawled over John's shorter legs, and into his arms. "Did good, John?"

"You've done wonderful, Hamish. You have been such a brave little boy... Hamish?"

"'Es, John?" the little boy whispered.

"Does Daddy get sad a lot?"

"Did."

"He did."

"Mmm-hmm."

"But he doesn't anymore?"

"Not... Daddy is good, John. I 'ove lot. Daddy say no seep at Daddy, but Hame has scared ah'ties an' Daddy say is 'kay."

John laughed aloud, still in awe at the wonder that is the little being in his arms. 

The two merely sat in each other's holds for a moment, seeming to make up for lost time. John was thinking about what Hamish had said about Sherlock having sad eyes, when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Careful not to disturb Hamish, he quickly pulled it out. The doctor frowned when he was the Caller I.D. read: Mike Stamford. He rarely received calls from Mike anymore.

"Hello?"

"John?"

"Yeah, Mike, how's it going?"

"... John?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Mary."


	46. Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Okay, I'm not going to say much except that this chapter turned out to be far sadder than I intended. I am so sorry for the sad feels you will probably experience. And I do mean that sincerely. However, this is the peak of the sadness, and all will get much better from here on out, I really do promise. Please don't hate me for this chapter, all! I apologize! =(

The car was almost completely obliterated on the side Mary would have been seated.

John and Sherlock merely stared at the steaming wreckage of what had once been a cab, now reduced to a crumpled heap of metal and glass.

Though Sherlock never claimed to know much, if anything about human nature, he knew enough to realize this was bad. Hands in his pockets, the detective dared a glance to his friend. Tears were quickly pooling in the doctor's eyes, though he was not staring at the wreckage, but rather to his right, at the quickly-disappearing lights of the ambulance carrying his wife. 

"John?"

The doctor didn't appear to hear him. 

"John, come along. We'll need to go now if we plan to catch up with the ambulance," Sherlock murmured carefully, knowing John was probably rather fragile at the moment. 

"What? But she's... Oh." John's brows tugged together in confusion. "What?"

"Come along. Mycroft has a car waiting." Sherlock carefully put a hand on John's shoulder, and turned him towards the waiting car.

"Oh, yes. Right, I..." John blinked a few times, as if to clear away the tears— though it only made a few spill over—and then cleared his throat. "Yes." The doctor shrugged away from Sherlock's hand and began to dazedly make his way towards the thin, impossibly shiny black car. 

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Sherlock quickly made his way to the other side of the car and stepped in. He felt his heart twinge—almost painfully—in his chest as he saw Hamish, little legs dangling over the side of the large seat, dressed only in a pair of pajama bottoms, clutching desperately to a blanket that had managed to find its way into the car. 

As soon as he saw his father enter the car, the little boy whimpered slightly and then scurried over and onto the detective's warm, familiar lap. 

"Shh, it's all right, Hamish," Sherlock whispered soothingly.

"Not is good, Daddy?" Hamish whispered into the detective's chest as he snuggled inside the warmth of his father's coat.

"A bit not good, yes," the detective whispered. With a sad sigh, he wrapped the coat further around Hamish's tiny body, tucking him closer to his chest as John finally—and rather hazily—entered the car.

Mycroft who was seated in the front, turned back to gaze at his brother. The two shared a wordless agreement, and then the car was speeding away towards hosptial.

 

 

It was clear Hamish, though he did not understand what was happening, was terribly frightened. Throughout the entire ride, the little boy clung to Sherlock as if worried he would be taken away. His tiny hand grasped onto his father's dark purple shirt, while the other remained safely wrapped in the detective's reassuring grasp. He kept his head pressed against Sherlock's chest, and was merely staring at John, who was seated on the far end of the car.

Sherlock, knowing Hamish was frightened and did not understand what was going on, pressed his lips to the little boy's auburn curls and began to run his thumb over and through the little fingers resting in his palm, moving in a very slow rhythmic motion. He placed his free hand to Hamish's back and could feel the curve of his son's tiny spine against his fingertips; they seemed to move with each breath beneath his hold.

"Daddy?" came a sudden whisper. Sherlock stopped his rhythmic movements and glanced down to find Hamish staring up at him, dark green irises growing watery with tears. 

"Yes, love?"

"What nap'ned, Daddy?" the little boy whispered with a wobble in his voice. He dared a glance towards John, and then, with a shiver, huddled even closer to Sherlock. 

"Well... We don't know yet, Hamish. Something may have happened to Mary," the detective answered cautiously. He began to slowly trace a few fingers up and down the bumps of his son's spine.

"Mmm," the little boy hummed, almost managing a smile at the ticklish feeling of a hand running up and down his back. "John is be sad, Daddy?"

"Yes... Yes, he is, Hamish..."

 

 

It was nightfall by the time they arrived at the hospital. Hamish had fallen asleep, practically inside his father's long, spacious coat. 

With Mycroft in the lead, Sherlock carefully stepped out of the car and waited for John, who slowly followed. The detective quickly snatched the blanket Hamish had been using earlier, and then followed his flat mate and brother into the building. 

Finding it was colder inside than it was outside, Sherlock draped the blanket over Hamish's bare back, tucked it under his legs and bottom, and then wrapped him even further into his coat. All that could be seen was the top of the little boy's head; his usually pale cheeks were flushed a light pink and, as they made their way to a waiting area, Sherlock could feel the little boy's tiny hand clench and unclench where it was resting against the bare skin of his neck; he could feel every scratch of his son's small fingernails.

The three adults quickly settled into the uncomfortable chairs, each waiting, as if for something to happen.

For lack of anything better to do, Sherlock occupied himself by adjusting the blanket draped around Hamish's body. He pulled the fabric away and then quickly replaced it.

"Does he normally go without a shirt?" Mycroft drawled rather distastefully. His tense expression soon softened, however, upon receiving a stern look from his younger brother. "Apologies."

"That's quite all right," Sherlock murmured, not even noticing he'd begun rocking back and forth. 

"Mmm. So, tell me, is there a reason Hamish is half-naked?"

"Well, I..." Sherlock turned his gaze to John, hoping the doctor would answer. However, when he merely continued to stare at the floor, Sherlock parted his lips slightly and turned back to his brother. "From what I could make out, John got the call, but was not informed of what at happened at first. As such, he started to get Hamish ready for bed, and about half-way through got the news about Mary, and I assume he was unable to complete the task due to the shock of the information. I'm... Not quite sure what all happened after that. John was... Not thinking problem."

"Mmm," Mycroft merely hummed in response, giving a small nod of his head. 

With a sad frown, Sherlock turned back to gaze at John, whose eyes seemed to have gone blank. For lack of anything better to do, the detective turned his attention back to Hamish and began to play with his tiny, curled-up toes, as his fingers happened to be directly by them.

As he held the little boy's entire foot in his own hand, the detective was struck with the realization of how tiny, vulnerable, and untouched by the evils of the world Hamish was. If Mary were to die, how would he...

No, he silently scolded himself. We don't even know the extent of her injuries. 

With one last, quick glance to his friend, Sherlock pressed Hamish closer and hoped with all his might for the best.

 

 

 

Several hours later, John was seated with a hand covering his mouth, Mycroft was twirling the handle of his umbrella with his slender fingers, and Sherlock was sound asleep with Hamish dozing lightly against his chest, still wrapped in the blanket. 

Eventually, a young nurse hesitantly stepped her way into the sitting room. "Doctor John Watson?"

"Hmm... Oh. Oh, yes?"

"I assume you're... Mary's wife, yes?" the nurse asked quietly. John merely nodded dumbly in reply. 

"Right. Come with me, please."

With no regards to either Sherlock, nor Mycroft, John took off down the hallway, following after the nurse. 

Clearing his throat, Mycroft awoke his brother by giving him a firm tap in the knee with his umbrella. The detective awoke with a small gasp, hands momentarily clutching Hamish closer before relaxing and sliding to their previous positions. 

"Has he been summoned?" Sherlock murmured, rubbing a few fingers into his eyes.

"Indeed." 

"Right, then... You follow him," the detective told his brother as he attempted to wake himself up. "I'll follow in a moment."

"Yes." Clutching his umbrella, Mycroft slowly stood and, using the device as a cane, began to follow after the nurse and doctor.

Still in the process of rubbing sleep from his eyes, Sherlock yawned widely, trying to be quiet, so as not to wake Hamish, but to no avail. With a tiny shudder, the little boy shivered slightly under the blanket and then, murmuring something unintelligible, blinked open his deep green eyes, gazing tiredly—if not a bit confusedly—up at his father. 

"Mmm. Well, hello, there," Sherlock chucked slightly when he saw Hamish yawn, which was accompanied by a rather adorable stretching sound. "Sleep well?"

"'Kay, Daddy." Clearly content with going back for a rest, the little boy turned his head, clearly settling himself in for another rest. Realizing for the first time that he was not home, but rather in a bright, foreign building, Hamish gasped, eyes quickly widening as he desperately tired to remember how he'd gotten to this new place. 

"Hamish?"

"Where is here, Daddy?" the little boy questioned, sitting up on his father's lap to glanced worriedly around him. 

"We're at the hospital. Remember, Hamish?"

"... No, Daddy," Hamish murmured, turning his gaze back to Sherlock with a tiny frown on his lips. 

"Mary may have been hurt. And we're here with Uncle Mycroft and John to see if she's all right," the detective murmured carefully, brushing some of his son's curls out of his eyes with a bittersweet smile. 

"Oh." Brows pulling together to form a look of confusion, Hamish turned and laid against Sherlock, placing his cheek against his father's pale neck. In response, the detective ducked down and pressed the curve of his cheek against his son's temple.

"Mary does have ouch, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, pressing back against his father's warm cheek. 

Taking a deep breath and choosing his words carefully, Sherlock stood, deciding he should join John to give him whatever support he may need, and hoping that the rhythmic movement of walking would put Hamish back to sleep; he wanted to spare the little boy from as much as he could. "Mary may have been in a bad car crash, Hamish," the detective murmured, adjusting the blanket that was covering his son's tiny body, as he began to walk slowly down the hallway. 

"In Tom Tank?"

"No, love," Sherlock whispered sadly, hugging the little boy close, and wrapping his fingers around the hand Hamish had placed against against his neck. "Not like the crashes in Thomas the Tank Engine, I'm afraid. Mary might be very badly injured, Hamish."

"Oh... John is hurt, Daddy?"

"Well... Not physically," Sherlock answered.

"Not is stand, Daddy." 

With a sad exhale of breath, Sherlock carefully switched Hamish's body to his other side. Not wanting to attempt to explain death to his son--and hoping he wouldn't have to--Sherlock merely answered, "John is sad right now, Hamish. But no, he's not physically hurt."

"Why?"

"Why is John sad?"

"'Es," the little boy yawned, wrapping his arms tiredly around his father's neck. 

"Because he loves Mary, Hamish... And when loved ones get hurt, it makes you sad... Do you understand?"

"Tiny bit, Daddy."

"Tiny bit..."

"Hame can... Can see, Daddy?" Hamish whispered. Sherlock could hear that the little boy was quickly losing his energy. 

"You mean see Mary?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Well... Maybe, love. Maybe."

"'Kay, Daddy..."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he felt Hamish's body go limp, signaling he'd fallen back to sleep. 

Now that he could walk at a normal pace, the detective quickly found Mycroft, twirling his umbrella, waiting outside of a room.

"How is she?" Sherlock whispered, so as not to wake Hamish.

"Not well." 

Sherlock gave a solemn nod of understanding. "I'm going to go in. Would you be able to take Hamish?"

"Of course." Putting his umbrella away, Mycroft opened his arms.

"Right, then... There you are." With a sad sigh, the detective tenderly transferred his son's sleeping form into his brother's waiting arms. "Got him?"

"Yes... Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Mary's not going to make it, Sherlock."

Eyes downcast, the detective pursed his lips and gave a nod of understanding, before pushing the door open and entering the stale-smelling hospital room. Any hope he'd been clinging to instantly slid away as he caught sight of Mary.

It was clear she'd been sitting on the right side of the car, where it was hit; the right side of her face--and, he assumed, most of her body, though it was mostly covered with sheets--was covered in bandages, parts of which were stained with drying blood. Sherlock could only guess that most of her skin on the right side of her battered body was either missing or badly torn. There were too many IV's, drips, cords, and needles hooked up to her, that Sherlock didin't even attempt to count them. Though she was breathing, it was clear to the detective that his brother was right. Considering Mary's body would have absorbed much of the impact of the oncoming car that had hit the cab, the detective had not doubt that she was probably suffering from massive internal bleeding.

"John." Realizing he'd been staring completely at Mary, Sherlock turned his gaze to Joh'n's form, and felt suddenly incredibly sorry for his friend.

The doctor was staring, clearly heartbroken, at his wife's form. Tears were streaming freely down his cheeks as he held Mary's hand, and pressed it close to his cheek, placing the occasional tear-wet kiss to her fingers. Sherlock didn't even know if his friend knew he was there. Deciding he should say something, the detective opened his mouth and took a breath.

"The doctor's keep telling me that I should allow them to wake her up so I can say goodbye and... Sort through everything," John murmured before Sherlock could say anything. 

"But you don't want to," the detective answered cautiously. Though he already knew the answer as to why, he allowed John to answer for himself. 

"No... Because once we're done, she'll be gone. And i wont' get anymore time to love her, or hug her, or kiss her... She'll be gone and... And... That... She..." Unable to continue, John clutched his wife's hand to his chest and began silently sobbing into her skin. 

Unsure of how to help, Sherlock merely took a step forward and placed a hesitant hand to the doctor's shoulder, which only seemed to make him sob harder. "I am sorry, John," he murmured. "...Would you prefer me to leave you alone?"

"No!" John answered almost immediately, turning away from Mary to look at his friend and reveal his bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks. "I just, uhh... I'd rather not be alone, mate." 

"Of course," Sherlock whispered with a reassuring smile. "I'll pull up a chair, then." Releasing John's shoulder from his grasp, the detective turned and grabbed one of the plastic chairs, pulling it up next to the doctor.

The two sat in silent with John gently caressing the parts of Mary's face that were not bandaged, and Sherlock merely watched his friend with sad eyes, hoping the doctor would be all right at the end of this. 

Eventually a doctor silently let herself into the room. Knowing John was not going to, Sherlock stood and walked over to the middle-aged woman. "Good night, doctor," he greeted, linking his fingers behind his back. "I'm Sher--"

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, I know who you are," the doctor assured with a sad smile. "I know the both of you from the papers... And your brother gave me quite an earful on what would happen to my reputation, should I try to remove you from Doctor Watson's side."

"Ah, right. Well, John's a bit... Subdued at the moment."

"AS is to be expected... Mr. Holmes, would you be able to relay some information for me?"

"I can certainly try."  
"Excellent. Right, then. I know that this is going to be very difficult, but Mary has a very narrow window of time left where we'll be able to keep her conscious. That window is quickly closing. As such, we need Doctor Watson's approval to momentarily awaken Mary. We don't... We believe her heart will give out shortly after."

Mouth drawn into a line, Sherlock debated for a moment. "I'll tell him."

"Thank you... And my sincerest condolences... To you both."

"Thank you." Sherlock watched as the doctor silently let herself from the room. Taking a shaky breath, Sherlock turned to find John had stood and was gazing at him with watery eyes. "You heard," the detective sighed quietly, averting his gaze. John merely nodded in reply. "John, I am so sorry. I won't--"

"Tell me what to do," John whispered suddenly, hands clenching at his sides. "Please, Sherlock... I... I don't know what i'm supposed to do."

"John, I'm not sure I should be the one who--"

"Sherlock. You always know what to do... Please just... What do you think I should do?"

Unbelieving, Sherlock quickly scanned his friend's emotionally over-worked form, searching for any signs to suggest the doctor's questions were being asked when he was not of a sound mind. But he found no such things; John was positively serious. "John."

"Yes?"

"I think we need to wake her up and then let her go." Sherlock saw a single tear slide out of the corner of John's eye.  
Inhaling slowly, the doctor closed his eyes.

The two waited in silence, Sherlock gazing sadly at his friend, and John taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. "Fine," he agreed eventually, giving a terse nod of his head before settling back at Mary's side.

"Right, then."

Eventually, there were doctors and nurses flying about the room, plugging and unplugging machines, replacing and changing medicines.

Once the room was finally free of the noisy hospital staff, and Mary was just beginning to awaken, Sherlock silently excused himself, not only to give John and his dying wife some privacy, but to check on Hamish.

Closing the door behind him, Sherlock turned his attention to where Mycroft and Hamish had been to find the little boy, wide awake, and looking quite upset, sitting on the floor, and clinging to his uncle's leg. Upon spotting his father, the little boy immediately hopped up and toddled his half-naked self over to the detective, frowning deeply. 

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked worriedly, scooping his son into his arms, where the small boy quickly grabbed ahold of the collar of his coat and began glancing wearily around.

"No does like here, Daddy," Hamish mumbled, mouth curling even further downward as another wave of nurses and doctors began to hurry their way down the hall towards them, bustling and noisy. 

Cranky both from the lack of sleep and inability to have the comforts of his home, Hamish turned and buried his face in his father's neck, tangling a tiny hand in the detective's curls. "Go home now, Daddy," he whined into Sherlock's skin, tightening his grip around the detective's neck.

"Not just yet, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss his son's forehead. "I'm sorry, but we're going to need to be here for a little bit longer." Hearing and feeling the tell-tale signs of exhausted tears quickly approaching, the detective quickly hurried in the opposite direction of the swarm of hospital staff, shooing Mycroft an apologetic smile. 

"What is doing, Daddy?" Hamish asked, turning his head just enough so he could peer out of the safety of his father's arms and skin to see where he was being carried. 

"We're going someplace quiet where we can cool you off," Sherlock answered, gently stroking a few fingers over and through the little boy's auburn curls. 

"I is hot, Daddy," Hamish mumbled, sounding positively miserable.

"I know," the detective chuckled. "That's why we're going to cool you off." Finding a bathroom in a rather uninhabited part of the hospital, Sherlock opened the door, checking to make sure it was empty, and then stepped in, locking the door behind him. Pressing another reassuring kiss to Hamish's curls, the detective strode into the middle of the too-clean bathroom and gently set Hamish on his feet. 

With a sniffle, the little boy took a tiny fist and rubbed it into his eyes, mumbling something that sounded to Sherlock like, "Tired want home, Daddy."

"I'm sorry, Hamish," the detective apologized truthfully, taking his son's tiny hand in his own and giving it a squeeze. 

"Ah what, Daddy?"

"I'm sorry that you have to be here... Experiencing this," Sherlock explained, even though he knew the little boy wouldn't fully understand. "I'm sorry that we're not home right now, sound asleep..."

"Not stand, Daddy."  
Sherlock merely smiled. "I know you don't, Hamish. But that's okay. I wouldn't want you to." 

Now even more confused than before, Hamish plopped down on the ground, taking his father's hand with him. "Oh. I is sorry, Daddy."

"That's quite all right, Hamish. Nothing to be sorry for." Smiling sadly, Sherlock turned his hand, briefly cupping his son's warm head in his palm before gently pulling away and turning towards the sink. Listening carefully to make sure Hamish was all right, the detective quickly grabbed a decent amount of paper towels and began to wet them down with cool water. Towels in hand, he turned back to find Hamish was watching him, eyes drooping slightly. "Let's see if this helps." Placing a hand to the back of his son's hand, Sherlock crouched down and, turning the little boy's head to one side, gently placed the cool cloth to Hamish's cheek, wetting and cooling it, before repeating the process on the other side.

"There, now. I imagine that feel much nicer, doesn't it?" he murmured. The detective barely noticed he'd begun to twirl a lock of Hamish's hair between his fingers.

"'Es, Daddy. Lot 'etter," the little boy sighed in relief, allowing his eyes to slide closed. 

Sherlock's gaze saddened as he realized Hamish should get a chance to say goodbye to Mary before it was too late. "Come here, Hamish." With touches far too tender for a man such as he, Sherlock reached forward, effortlessly pulling his son's sleepy form into his arms. Delicatley touching the cool cloths to Hamish's cheeks as he made the slow walk back to Mary's room, the detective simultaneously placed his lips to various parts of the little boy's face; his cheeks, his forehead, his curls, the corner of his tiny lips. "Hamish? Do you want to see Mary?" At the mention, Hamish's eyes fluttered open. 

"See Mary?" he asked, pulling his head up and away from his father's shoulder.

"Yes. We... You may not get another chance to."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Not understanding, but in fact now rather giddy at the prospect of finally seeing Mary, Hamish straightened in the detective's arms, and a small smile graced his features. The sight broke his father's heart.

Forcing his fingers and feet to move, Sherlock pushed open the door to Mary's hospital room and walked in. He felt his eyes begin to burn with tears when he walked over to the bed and saw the smile immediately fade from his son's lips, to be replaced by an utterly heartbroken open-mouthed frown. 

"Daddy," the little boy gasped almost inaudibly, leaning out of the detective's arms to place an incredibly--impossibly gentle--fingertip to Mary's cheek. "Mary..." 

Sherlock could see his son's eyes quickly filling with frightened, worried tears. 

"Hame," came John's gravelly voice. 

Shaking slightly, the little boy turned his gaze to the doctor and a single tear slid out of the corner of his eyes upon seeing the doctor's own tear-stained cheeks. "No, Daddy," he whispered, shuddering. "No like. No. Out! Out, Daddy!" Tiny chest heaving with uncontrollable sobs, the little boy frantically turned in his father's arms, scrambling for a way out.

"Hamish?"

All movement stopped upon hearing Mary's weak, broken voice. 

Face scrunched into a positively heart-breaking expression of pure sadness, Hamish turned in Sherlock's arms, turning his watering, deep green eyes to Mary's broken form. "Mary?" he whispered, voice quivering and frightened.

"Yes, darling." She managed a small, yet incredibly warm and reassuring smile to the terrified little boy.

Sherlock saw John's head drop in sadness. 

"Mary is ouched," Hamish sniffled.

"Yes, love. I'm afraid I am... Would you be willing to give me a hug to help?" Sherlock knew he was the only one who had heard Mary's voice break. 

"'Es," Hamish whispered frantically, eager to do anything to help. With his father's help, the little boy crawled out of Sherlock's arms and onto the bed, on Mary's good side. 

"Thank you, darling."

"Oh, Mary," Hamish sighed sorrowfully, gazing at her battered and broken body. "Mary?"

"Yes, love?"

"Mary does need a cud'mle?"

Averting his gaze, Sherlock turned away and felt warm tears spilling from his eyes.

"... Yes, Hamish."

"'Kay." Giving a stoic little nod, Hamish carefully crawled under the covers, careful not to touch Mary too much, and then, once he was settled, the little boy ever so gently snuggled close to her chest. "'Etter, Mary."

"Yes, Hamish. Thank you, my precious darling."  
Sherlock watched the scene with impossible sadness. All was silent. The room was merely filled with the sound of the heart-monitor, keeping track of Mary's dying heart. 

"I love you, Mary," John breathed suddenly, breaking the silence.

"I know, sweetheart... I know you do," Mary whispered back, and, just before her eyes slid shut, she and John shared a silent exchange that said more than any words possibly could have. And then, with a distinct exhale of breath, the heart monitor went blank, filling the room with a loud, long, never-ending beep, known to all as the end of a life...

 

 

 

Hamish had ended up falling asleep with Mary, his tiny body finally giving out on him. And Sherlock knew that was for the better. With Mycroft staying to keep an eye on John, the detective silently took his son home, the ringing of the heart monitor prominent in his ears. 

After tucking Hamish into the bed, Sherlock pulled a chair up next to his bed and gently stroked the back of his knuckles over the little boy's forehead and cheeks, simply listening to him breath. 

When the little boy awoke the next morning, the detective said nothing, and Hamish didn't ask. Though he didn't even try to understand how, Sherlock knew his son somehow understood that Mary was not coming back... 

 

 

 

John showed up at the flat two days after Mary's death, unable to face the flat they had shared. Sherlock immediately let him in, and gave him the spare bedroom downstairs. 

Knowing that the doctor would soon transition into the second stage of the grieving process, Sherlock merely waited, completely unsure of what would happen. He found out just after dinner, on the fifth day John had been staying at the flat.

Sherlock was helping Hamish, who was seated contently in his lap, complete a kind of simple, child's version of a Rubik's cube, when suddenly John murmured, "We'd been trying for a baby, you know."

Hoping this was some sort of venting process, Sherlock kept silent and allowed his freind to continue. 

"Months... Nothing. And you? You just happen to stumble upon an orphanage so bloody decrepit it's a wonder the thing hadn't collapsed in on itself, and you just happen to find the only bloody perfect child in the world!"

Quickly realizing where this was going, Sherlock stood and turned Hamish towards his room, attempting to usher him up. 

"No! How is that fair? You--the most cruel, vile, rude human being on the entire planet! You manage to find a child who not only loves you back, but who can do no wrong! Months, Sherlock! Nothing... And now she's dead! And you're still continuing on your merry way with perfect bloody child!" 

Sherlock had never seen John so unwound. The detective's expression was one of pure shock. He could feel anger boiling in his chest, but managed to suppress it, knowing this was not really John. This was John in grieving... It was the irrational part of his mind, telling him to lash out at the closest and most vulnerable thing he could find. 

Both adults froze, however, upon hearing a tiny sniffle, followed by a quite, "John?" Two sets of eyes turned to find Hamish, eyes flooded with tears, staring up in complete shock at the doctor. "John..." Unable to bear looking at him anymore, Hamish turned, clutching onto his father's slacks, and pressed his face into the detective's thigh as he cried. 

"Do you feel better now?" Sherlock whispered accusingly, glaring icily at John. 

Trying to suppress his emotions, the detective quickly bent down and toted Hamish to his room, whispering unintelligible soothings into the little boy's ear. 

John merely stood frozen in the sitting room, shocked at the words that had passed his lips...

He would never know what Sherlock had told Hamish, or how the detective always knew what he was feeling, but when his friend emerged from the little boy's room, her merely told him, "You can go and see Hamish now," before slipping away into the kitchen.

Nodding dumbly and with an unimaginable amount of guilt flooding his chest, John slowly made his way up the stairs to Hamish's room, so familiar with the tread that he felt strangely at home while he was ascending them. "Hame?" he asked gently, with a knock.

"'Es. It is Hame," came the little boy's tiny whisper. John couldn't help but smile. And with that tiny movement of muscles, he felt an incredible pressure release itself from his muscles. "May I come in?"

"'Kay, John."

The doctor carefully pushed open the door to find Hamish, curled up under his covers, playing with the ear of his rabbit animal. "He'o, John."

"Hello, Hamish... Hamish?"

"'Es?"

"May I talk with you?"

"'Kay." With a tiny, hesitant smile, the little boy sat up and patted the space next to him. Feeling a fluttering in his chest, John gladly obliged. "Hame... Hamish. I... I'm so sorry," the doctor breathed. "I am so sorry, Hamish. I didn't mean anything I said down there. I love you... I think you are positively brilliant, and beautiful, and I would never take back our finding you. You have a very special place in my heart, Hamish. And I would never--never--want that to go to anyone else. Do you understand? I am so sorry... Please, just... Forgive me, Hame... I'm so sorry..." Guilt once again rising painfully in his chest, the doctor dropped his head, gaze falling to the ground. "I am so sorry." 

All was silent for a few short moments and then, suddenly, there was a tiny pair of arms wrapped tightly around his neck and a head snuggling against his neck. 

"It is 'kay, John," came Hamish's tiny voice. "Daddy did talk and now I stand. John is sad, so say mean, but not mean ah'cose are sad... So it is 'kay. I still 'ove... Have miss, John."

"Oh, Hamish, I missed you, too." Clutching the little boy close to his chest and wrapping him in a hug, John pressed his nose to Hamish's curls and inhaled. All of the doubts, worries, sadness, anger, fear, and hate from the past week momentarily dissipated. 

"I 'ove, John."

"I love you, too, little man. Do you forgive me?"

"'Es."

"Oh thank God," John breathed, pressing a thankful, forgiving kiss to Hamish's temple.

"John?"

"Yes, yes Hame, what is it?" the doctor murmured in response.

"Will stay 'night at I? Stay, John?"

Pulling away so he could just stared into Hamish's eyes, John felt a relieved, truly genuine smile of his own cross his lips as he found a tiny smile gracing the little boy's features. "Of course I will... Of course, Hamish."

"Good, John." Smile widening into a tired grin, Hamish crawled into John's strong, distantly familiar hold and quickly settled in. "John?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"I like lot..."

"Me too, Hamish... Me too..."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Will stay for-ev-more?" Hamish asked softly, nuzzling against the doctor's neck.

"Forever," John promised. And, as he felt Hamish's body go limp in his arms, and felt the smile still fresh on the little boy's lips curl against his skin, John knew that he meant it... And suddenly, with Hamish sleeping in his arms, he knew everything was going to be all right... Everything would be all right...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Once again, I'm sorry if this chapter really upset some readers, I truly am! However, I am boycotting sadness from here on out! As such, the next chapter will be nothing but adorable, sweet, HAPPY, Hamish-filled fluff! Promise! Maybe I'm just overreacting... Some feedback on what YOU think would be wonderful, guys! Thank you! Hope to get the next chapter up quickly!


	47. First Times and Being Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Okay, so the feedback on the last chapter was positively amazing! I truly cannot express my gratitude to all who answered my question and were kind enough to review ! Thank you so very much for all of your support and being truly wonderful. You all have supported me so much, and my realization of that support was quickly discovered once again with the wonderful, kind, and helpful responses I received on the last chapter. So just: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! I have not words which will properly describe how much I love and appreciate you all! I hope this chapter is fluffy enough to make up for the sadness in the last chapter. If not, there is still plenty more on the way! Thanks, all! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Please excuse any mistakes! I posted this as soon as I finished.)

"Molly!" came Hamish's triumphant little cry from where he was seated on the floor in John's lap. Tripping over himself, the tiny boy attempted to scramble out of the doctor's legs and towards the pathologist, who had just ascended the steps. "Oof!" he grumbled, scowling at the ground he'd just fallen onto.

"Oh! Here you go, little man," John chuckled, pulling Hamish back up into a standing position. "Tank'su!" his little flat mate giggled. As way of apology the small boy gave the doctor a precious smile and a tiny pat on the knee, before quickly realizing once again that Molly had arrived. "Oh! Molly!"

"Hello, darling," the pathologist laughed as she set the baby carrier containing her daughter on the ground. "How's my favorite little boy?" she asked as she watched Hamish toddle his little self over to her.

"Much good, Molly," he answered bashfully and with a timid smile. "Want hug, Molly? Daddy say would."

"Oh, did he now?" Grinning and with a blush quickly rising on her cheeks, Molly gazed around the flat to find the detective seated in his chair, legs crossed with his laptop propped atop them, clacking away intently at the keys; clearly he was on a very important case.

"'Es," Hamish giggled, a light pink tinting his own chubby cheeks. He quickly hurried forward and was trapped in a warm hug from Molly.

Giggling herself, the pathologist caught John's eye and, keeping Hamish wrapped in her arms, raised her eyebrows in question. He merely smiled weakly and shrugged in response before turning his attention to Sherlock's focused form and loudly clearing his throat. "Sherlock." More clacking. "Sherlock." Nothing. "Sherlock!" The detective merely continued to type away at his laptop, features creased into one of upmost concentration.

With a sigh and a tiny smile, Hamish turned in Molly's arms. "Daddy?"

Instantly, Sherlock's fingers stilled and his grey eyes lifted, instantly focusing with worry on his son. "Oh," he breathed, chuckling just a bit when he found the little boy, blushing, and wrapped tightly in Molly's arms. "Hello, Molly. I didn't hear you come up."

"Yes. I know."

All eyes turned to John when the doctor mumbled something unintelligible under his breath and threw his arms up in the air. "Unbelievable," he grumbled, which sent Molly into another fit of giggles.

The doctor knew he shouldn't be surprised; John was well aware that Sherlock filtered most everything and everyone he classified as usually unimportant, and that the list was infinite. He also knew Hamish was not on that list. Smiling slightly at the the thought, John couldn't help but chuckle when he saw Sherlock close his laptop and leave his seat.

"Thank you for coming, Molly. I assume you brought everything you'd need?" the detective asked, meandering over to the petite pathologist.

"Yep! Although, admittedly, there's not really a lot to bring," Molly answered, setting Hamish back on the floor.

"Daddy!" the little boy called with a grin. Murmuring contently to himself, Hamish toddled over to his father and settled himself close to the detective's leg. "Molly did come."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock chuckled. With a warm smile, the detective splayed a few fingers to his son's back and gently rubbed them up and down.

"Molly?" Hamish asked, not even realizing he was leaning into his father's touch.

"Yes, love?"

"Did bring baby Rose?"

"Yes, of course."

"I can see?"' Hamish gasped, little legs bouncing up and down in excitement. He was still rather enamored and intrigued with the baby girl.

"Of course, love."

A content, excited smile on his lips, Hamish toddled over to the baby carrier and waited patiently for Molly to lift the covers of the seat. With excited huffs of breath, the small boy leaned over to find Rose was just waking. "He'o Baby Rose. Oh. Molly?"

"Yes?"

"I did stop seep?"

Not understanding, the pathologist turned to Sherlock, who knelt down, a small smile twitching over his lips. "No," he translated, "you did not wake Rose up, Hamish."

"Oh. 'Kay. Good Daddy!" Content once again, Hamish plopped himself on the ground, just barely able to reach into the seat and play with Rose's fingers.

Smiling, Sherlock stood and slowly backed away, hands in his pockets.

"Sherlock?" John asked suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"What are we doing? What did Molly bring and what is it for?"

"Oh. Hamish is getting a haircut today. Molly was kind enough to volunteer."

"Ah, okay..."

"What, Daddy?" Hamish asked, having heard his name.

"Nothing, love," Sherlock chuckled, sharing a smile with his flat mate.

 

 

 

 

 

For some reason, Rose had taken quite a liking to Sherlock and quite enjoyed being held by the detective, much to his uncomfortableness and Hamish's delight.

The three were currently seated on the couch, Rose resting in Sherlock's lap, her back against his stomach, and Hamish snuggled close to his thigh, talking unintelligibly about something that appeared to be rather exciting. He had Rose's small hand in his own and was playing contently with her little fingers. Molly and John were in the kitchen, each with a up of tea, chatting.

"Right, then." Deciding he could no longer avoid the inevitable, Sherlock carefully placed his hands under Rose's armpits and turned her so she was facing his chest. "Come along, Hamish," he murmured fondly, settling the tiny girl against his chest. She soon began to giggle and, having not yet shaken away the waves of sleep, began nuzzling the detective's neck, which instantly made him tense.

"Daddy," Hamish giggled, noticing the utter look of worry on his father's face. "It is 'kay, Daddy," he reassured with a tug to his father's fingers. "Rose not does be mean. Is nice."

Placing an unsure hand to Rose's back, Sherlock turned his attention down to his tiny son, who was smiling preciously up at him. A tender smile ghosted over his lips and his gaze softened. "I love you, Hamish," he chuckled suddenly, giving Hamish's fingers a squeeze.

"I know, Daddy. I 'ove lot, too."

Sherlock merely smiled in response. Fingers wrapped around his son's, and other hand occupied with keeping Rose against his chest, the detective carefully walked into the kitchen. "Molly?"

"Hmm? Oh. Are we ready?"

"Yes. Well... We'll see, rather."

With a knowing smile, Molly carefully found the bag she'd brought in with her and set it on the recently-cleared kitchen table.

"John?" Sherlock asked, hand having been removed from Hamish's fingers to be placed under Rose's bottom.

"Yeah?"

"Could you... Take her? Please?"

"Oh! Yeah, of course!" the doctor laughed, quickly hurryring forward. Sherlock eagerly transferred Rose into his flat mate's waiting arms.

"Well hello there," the doctor cooed fondly, a grin spreading across his lips when the baby girl began giggling up at him. Sherlock watched with a bittersweet smile as John gently bounced Rose up and down in his arms and meandered to the other end of the kitchen. He could vaguely hear the doctor cooing to the giggling baby, his voice just a whisper. The detective was pulled from his thoughts by Hamish's voice and a tug on his trousers.

"Daddy? What is doing, Daddy?"

"You," Sherlock answered as he bent down and scooped Hamish into his arms, "are getting a haircut." To further make his point, the detective brushed back a few stray curls that had grown long enough to fall just into his son's eyes.

Not understanding, Hamish's bottom lip pushed out just a bit and his light eyebrows tugged towards each other. "No stand, Daddy."

"We're going to cut your hair. Just there. It's getting far too long, love," Sherlock chuckled, taking a few stray locks between his fingers. "See? And Molly's going to help us." The detective gestured to where the pathologist had laid out a pair of scissors, a spray bottle, and a comb.

Deciding this situation had quickly taken a turn for the worse, Hamish frowned and scrambled in his father's arms, until he was situated on the hip that was was farthest away from the seemingly-frightening looking tools Molly had laid out. "Daddy," he whispered, tugging on a lock of the detective's curls.

Sherlock could hear the fright in his son's tiny voice. With a fond smile, the detective leaned down, allowing the small boy to whisper into his ear.

"No tank'su, Daddy. I not want to have Hame cut. 'Ease can say Molly?" Pulling away, Hamish kept a few fingers curled around the shell of his father's ear.

"No, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled fondly. "It doesn't hurt, love. I promise. But your hair is getting a bit long and we just need to trim it."

"No 'ease."

"Yes, please."

"No, Daddy." Quickly becoming anxious as he dared another glance towards the worrying tools his father was speaking of, Hamish buried his face in Sherlock's suit-clad shoulder and mumbled, "'Ease no, Daddy. Not want. Ouch."

"Hamish, we need to cut your hair," Sherlock chuckled. With a tender smile, the detective pressed his lips to his son's temple, hoping to be reassuring, and then began to card a few fingers through the little boy's auburn curls. "I promise Hamish, it doesn't hurt." Sherlock could feel Hamish's little fingers curl against his ear; his weak grip tightened. "Do you believe me?" the detective murmured against his son's skin.

Hamish clearly thought for a moment. Sherlock could feel the little boy's short bursts of breath against his skin. "No ouch, Daddy?"

"Not at all."

"… Prom'kiss?"

Sherlock smiled against Hamish's temple. "Promise."

"'Kay." Taking a deep breath of bravery, Hamish turned out of the safety of his father's shoulder and glanced once again at the hair-cutting devices on the table. "Does look scared, Daddy."

"I know it does," the detective chuckled with a genuine smile. "But they're not scary… Nor do they hurt."

"… 'Kay," Hamish whispered, still sounding frightened. "Daddy will stay," he stated. Clearly there was no arguing the point.

"Certainly." Sharing a smile with Molly and with a glance towards John, who was still rocking Rose in his arms with a warm smile on his lips, Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat down, setting Hamish on his lap. Instnatly, the little boy scooted himself back so he was touching as much of Sherlock as was possible for his tiny body.

"You're all right, Hamish," Sherlock reassured gently. The detective noticed Hamish's tiny toes were curling and uncurling, something the detective had learned to mean his son was anxious. With a deep rumble of a chuckle, Sherlock reached forward, took the tiny boy's foot in his hand, and rubbed the pad of his thumb against the smooth skin, which instantly sent Hamish into a fit of giggles.

"Daddy!" he laughed, pulling his foot from his father's gentle grasp. "Why doing, Daddy?"

"I'm trying to make you feel better."

"Oh. Was nice, Daddy," Hamish hummed, settled himself once again on his father's lap, though much more relaxed this time.

With a fond, somewhat triumphant smile, Sherlock took his son's foot in his hand again, unable to hold a smile at how tiny the appendage was against his palm.

"Right, then. Are we ready?" Molly asked, spray bottle and comb in hand. Sherlock nodded, not wanting to draw Hamish's attention back to the matter at hand. "Very good. Hamish love, look at me."

Green eyes wide and vaguely curious, Hamish turned his gaze to Molly, glanced at the items in her hand and, concluding they were safe, gave the pathologist a tiny smile and a nod.

"There's my boy," Sherlock whispered with a chuckle.

With a smile of her own, Molly took a slender hand and placed it over Hamish's eyes, so as not to get any water in his eyes, and then sprayed the auburn curls that were hanging in his eyes. She then took the comb and ran it through the little boy's fine hair. "Right. Now I'm just going to cut a little bit off, all right?"

Sherlock could feel Hamish's toes curl against his palm. "You're all right, Hamish," the detective reassured with a chuckle. He could hear the little boy mumble something unintelligible. "Not want, Daddy," Hamish added when Molly turned back to him, scissors in hand.

"I know you don't." With a smile, Sherlock placed his hand over Hamish's stomach and gave his son's belly a gentle pat. Bottom lip protruding with worry, the small boy nodded in response and then wrapped a few of his tiny fingers around Sherlock's thumb.

"Ready?"

"…'Kay," Hamish whispered with a feeble nod.

"Very good."

With a warm smile, Molly took a small bit of Hamish's auburn hair between her fingers and then, in several swift moves, was finished.

When Hamish made no sound and didn't move, Sherlock leaned around his son's tiny form to find the little boy had his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth pressed into a tight line, as if waiting for some sort of pain.

"Hamish," Sherlock laughed, pressing a series of fond, loving kisses to his son's cheeks. "You can open your eyes, Hamish. It's all over."

"What, Daddy?" Unbelieving, Hamish opened his eyes, confusion now creasing his precious features.

"You're all done. I promised it wouldn't hurt."

"Oh." Quite clearly surprised, Hamish's eyes fell down to his lap, where Molly had just finished picking up the cut locks of hair. "Molly?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I can see?"

"Oh. Sure." Molly carefully placed the fair, auburn locks into Hamish's outstretched hand.

Mouth falling open, Hamish settled into his father's lap, now that any and all tension had dissipated and, with precision unique only to a toddler, examined the hair that had previously been on his head; the small boy took a single finger and gently ran it over the soft lock of hair. "Look, Daddy," he whispered, clearly amazed.

"Yes, I see… I told you it wouldn't hurt," Sherlock chuckled.

"Is soft, Daddy."

"Yes, it is. Excellent observation, Hamish. You're so clever." Sherlock stood, sending Molly a thankful smile, and then moved Hamish to his hip. "So," the detective chuckled with a fond smirk, "that didn't hurt at all, did it?"

"No, Daddy," Hamish giggled, pulled from his wonder by a kiss to his cheek. With a bashful smile, the little boy ducked his head under Sherlock's chin, giggling into the detective's neck.

A warm smile of his own gracing his lips, Sherlock carefully took the lock of hair from his son's tiny fingers and deposited it in the trash; he was not one for such tangible sentiment.

"Done, Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish. You're all done."

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Where is be Baby Rose?"

"Oh, I think she's with John," Sherlock answered with a nod towards the pacing doctor.

"Oh. Can go see Baby Rose?"

"I'm sure John would be more than happy to have the both of you in his company," the detective murmured with a fond twitch of his lips.

"'Kay, Daddy. Down 'ease."

With a chuckle, Sherlock set his son's little form on the ground and felt a flutter of paternal love bloom and travel down his spine when Hamish's tiny fingers lingered against his own. The detective silently left the kitchen. He could vaguely here the small boy's tiny voice float its way into the sitting room, followed soon by John's deeper, more gravelly one.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock sat, knowing Hamish and John would both be well occupied, and pulled out his laptop.

 

 

 

 

 

"Where is going, Daddy?"

"To the doctor's office," Sherlock explained as he tugged a tiny pair of jeans onto Hamish's legs.

"Oh. John?"

"No, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled. "John's just there. See?" The detective gestured to the doctor, who was putting together some snacks, should the wait be long.

"Oh. Not stand, Daddy."

With a smile, Sherlock finished dressing his son. "We're going to the doctor's office for you, love; we need to get you checked up."

"Why, Daddy?"

"Just to make sure all is well," the detect chuckled. To further his point, the detective gently prodded Hamish's stomach.

"I has sick?" the small boy giggled as he was lifted onto his father's hip.

"No, not at all. We're going to make sure you don't get sick," Sherlock explained, hinting at the shot Hamish didn't know he would be getting.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Still rather confused, Hamish settled into his father's hold, and wrapped a hand around the detective's coat collar.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you gotten everything ready."

"I do believe so," the doctor murmured, tucking the last container of snacks into Hamish's diaper bag.

"Right. Well..." Sherlock turned his attention back to Hamish. "Let's be off, then!" he exclaimed, with a gentle pat to either side of his son's stomach.

"'Kay, Daddy." Now excited himself, Hamish ran into the sitting room to find his coat. When he discovered it lying atop the desk, and too far out of his reach, however, the little boy frowned and turned back to the two adults. "Hame can have help?" he called, leaning against one leg of the table.

"I've got you, Hame," John chuckled, slinging the diaper bag over his shoulder. "Now," he chuckled, walking into the sitting room and over to the desk, "what seems to be the problem, little man?"

"I can't not get," Hamish mumbled, pointing a tiny finger towards the out-of-reach jacket.

"Oh." Placing the bag on the ground, John reached over and, jacket in hand, squatted down in front of his little flat mate's form. "Here we are." With steady hands known only to a doctor, John took Hamish's arms and gently looped them through the holes, before pulling it tight over his middle. With a fond smile, the doctor zipped the tiny jacket halfway up. "Better?"

"Lots be 'etter," Hamish giggled, placing a few short fingers atop the hand John had resting against his middle.

"Good… Right, then. Ready?"

"'Es!" Excitement returning, Hamish hopped away from John and over to a smiling, chuckling Sherlock. "'Kay, Daddy?"

"Okay. Let's go." Giving his son's back a fond pat, the detective turned, so he was facing the stairs. "Well, then… By yourself or with help?" he asked with a chuckle.

"… Not help, Daddy," the tiny boy concluded after much thought.

"Right, then. Off you go."

"'Kay." With a tiny 'oof,' Hamish hopped onto the first step and slowly hopped his little self down the stairs, grunting every few steps, with Sherlock following closely and fondly behind.

"So," John murmured so Hamish would not hear as he followed his flat mate's down the stairs, bag in hand. "Does he know what's to come."

A fond smirk. "Fortunately, no," Sherlock chuckled.

"Probably for the best."

"I quite agree."

"He'll never forgive us," John laughed suddenly as Hamish turned back to grin at the two of them with a proud little grin.

"I'm sure with the proper amount of apologies and promises, he'll be just fine," Sherlock laughed as well, sharing a warm, genuine smile with his flat mate.

"What, Daddy?"

"Nothing, love," the detective chuckled.

"Oh. 'Kay. Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"I does want help now. Mired." With a little quirk of his lips, Hamish tapped his thighs with a tiny finger.

"Oh, you're tired," Sherlock chuckled in understanding. "Well, we most certainly cannot have that, can we?"

"No, Daddy," Hamish giggled, quickly settling into his father's familiar hold.

"There's my boy."

 

 

 

 

 

After a short cab ride to the doctor's, and then a short wait, during which Hamish could barely contain his excitement, the little boy's name was called.

"Hamish?"

"Daddy!" the little boy had gasped as soon as a nurse had called his name. "Hame, Daddy!"

"Yes, yes, I know." Attempting to match his son's enthusiasm, Sherlock took the bag from John and allowed the doctor to carry a now-ecstatic Hamish into the hall, where they were then quickly ushered into a room.

After Hamish's decision that he would rather sit with him, Sherlock hopped himself onto the paper-covered cot and then allowed John—with a smirk—to set the little boy on his lap.

"Have fun," the doctor mouthed.

"Oh, shut up, John."

"Daddy! Not nice."

A sigh and an eye roll. "Quite right."

"No, Daddy. Has pol'omize," Hamish tried.

"… Fine. John I'm sorry I told you to shut up. There. Better?"

"Good, Daddy," Hamish concluded with a small smile.

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually, after a series of nurses had measured and listened to and recorded everything they needed—much to the wonder and delight of Hamish—the doctor finally entered. She was a middle-aged woman and, as far as Sherlock could deduce, had no qualms at home, which rather pleased him.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson." They both nodded as she glanced at her computer. "So, we've got little Hamish here, hmm?"

"He'o!" the little boy chimed, upon hearing his voice.

"Oh! Well hello there," the doctor chuckled, sending the boy in question a warm smile. "So you're Hamish, hmm?"

"'Es! I is Hame. Is Daddy," he stated matter-of-factly, giving the detective's knee a rather adorable pat. "And is my John." A point to the sitting doctor.

"Ah. Well, how lovely." With another smile, she gave Hamish's knee a little pat of its own before turning to Sherlock and John. "Well, his speech seems to be quite advanced," she chuckled, typing once again on her portable computer. "And he seems positively lovely."

"Thank you," Sherlock and John stated at the same time. The detective merely continued to gaze down at Hamish, checking for any signs of anxiousness, while John was now blushing profusely.

"So you two are raising him together?"

"Yes," they once again answered at the same time. Suspecting the statement that would soon be coming, John took a hand and covered his eyes, kneading few fingers into his temple.

"Well… You two have done a wonderful job thus far. So. I'm just going to do a few extra check-ups, then. Is that all right?" she asked, more to Hamish than to his father.

"Daddy?" the little boy asked, leaning his head backwards and up so he could gaze at his father. When he was met with a warm smile and a nod, Hamish dropped his head back down and smiled preciously at the doctor. "'Kay. I is good."

"Excellent." After running a series of quick check-ups of her own, and asking some questions, the doctor concluded all was well with little Hamish. "Right, then. Now we just have one last thing." She shared a quick glance and a smile with John and Sherlock before turning and gathering the required vaccinations. "Does he know?" she mouthed, to which both adults replied with a fond shake of their heads. "Good. We'll need his shirt off, and then you'll need to distract him for me, all right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Hamish, love?"

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly. Sherlock noticed his son's energy was running out as his eyes were beginning to droop; they'd missed the nap Hamish was supposed to have taken during the time they'd spent waiting.

"I'm going to need to take your shirt off, all right?" the detective asked carefully.

"'Kay. Daddy can do?"

"Yes, I'll do it." With a reassuring smile, Sherlock carefully undid the few, small buttons lining the front of Hamish's tiny shirt with his slender fingers and then tugged it off. "Right, then. Now," he started, as he could see the doctor making her way over, two shots in hand, "why don't you have a look at me, all right?"

"'Kay…"

"You've been very brave," Sherlock praised just as the doctor put the first vaccine up to Hamish's little arm. He could feel Hamish's previously calm body go rigid in his lap. With a sad, rather apologetic smile, the detective glanced down to find his son's eyebrows were pulled together into an expression of utter confusion and shock. "Oh, Hamish," he chuckled, pressing his lips to the small boy's cheek as he was quickly given the second shot.

Quickly realizing that, while the shock of the initial shot did not hurt, the second one the doctor had stuck into his arm hurt quite a lot, Hamish turned around and buried his face in Sherlock's chest.

"Oh, love," the detective chuckled rather sadly as his son's cries became audible. With a quick nod to the doctor and a glance at John, Sherlock turned his head, so the curve of his cheekbone was resting atop Hamish's head and, while stroking a few fingers up and down the bumps of his spine, began to card his fingers through the little boy's auburn curls. "I know, Hamish," he murmured, pressing tender kisses to his son's hair.

"Ouch, Daddy," the little boy sobbed, voice muffled by Sherlock's coat.

"Shh… I know it did." The doctor signaled with a smile that they were free to go. Keeping Hamish's sobbing form pressed close, Sherlock hopped off the table and, with John close behind, left the pediatric's room. "Hamish," he whispered in a soothing voice, which only seemed to result in more sobs. "Hamish, love, you did a very good job in there," the detective murmured as he allowed John to check them out.

"Let them ouch, Daddy!"

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt twitch uncomfortably in his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered seriously.

"No like, Daddy," Hamish continued, turning his head out of the warmth of his father's chest. "I—I is—has ouched, Daddy," he cried, little voice breaking with his cries.

Despite his sympathetic sadness, Sherlock smiled. "I know you do, sweetheart. Can I do anything to make it better?"

Cries seeming to settle just a bit, Hamish turned so he was once again facing Sherlock's stomach, and curled his little self inward, firmly settling himself against his father's chest and into the detective's warm, reassuring hold. "Can—can I has kiss, D-daddy?" he sniffled after a few moments contemplation.

Sherlock smiled. "Of course you can, Hamish," he murmured, noticing John had finished. He turned and began to follow the doctor out.

Wanting to see if the situation had worsened or gotten better, John turned back and—with tenderness he knew was only reserved for Hamish—watched Sherlock tenderly turn the little boy in his arms, careful not to further harm him in any way.

"Right, then," the detective murmured. "I'll see if I can make it better." Now that he'd managed to settle Hamish to just sniffles and the occasional whimper, Sherlock leaned down and just barely pressed his lips to his son's little arm; just enough pressure for the small boy to know he'd been kissed, but not enough to cause any further pain.

"There," Sherlock whispered as he slowly sauntered down the hallway with John. "Do you feel any better?"

"No, Daddy," Hamish grumbled with a tiny whimper. Face drawn into an expression of utter miserableness, the little boy turned himself once again, allowing his cheek to press against the pale of expanse of skin that was Sherlock's neck. "Was mean, Daddy," he scolded, head lolling miserably back and forth with each of his father's slow steps.

"I know it was," Sherlock whispered with a sad, yet tender smile. "I'm very sorry, Hamish. But you were incredibly brave. I hope you know that."

"Tink, Daddy?"

"I absolutely think so."

"Not Hame. Was not," Hamish grumbled with another sad sniffle.

"Well why ever not?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

They'd just left the building; Sherlock waited while John fetched a cab.

"Ah'cose Hame did have sad," the small boy explained, hesitantly pulling away from the safety of his father's hold to gaze up into the detective's pale eyes. Tears quickly flooded his eyes once again as he was met a wave of pain and soreness in his arm. Unsure of what to do with himself, Hamish closed his eyes and simply allowed his head to fall forward; with a tiny mumble of unhappiness, his little fingers found their way to his father's curls where they quickly tangled themselves.

Seeing his son's pink, tear-stained cheeks for the first time, Sherlock smiled sadly. "There is nothing wrong with being sad, Hamish," the detective explained, urging his son back away and then taking the pad of his thumb and tenderly wiping away all traces of tears. Hamish's eyes slowly fluttered closed with each gentle brush.

"And there is certainly nothing wrong with crying," the detective added as he cradled his son's head in his hand. He noticed for the first time that the curve of Hamish's cheekbone fit perfectly against his palm; as if two puzzle pieces were never made to fit more together.

"But… But Daddy not does cry," Hamish reasoned with a sad, tired blink of his eyes.

"That's not true. I have cried many times over the course of my life. I cried when I was very little, I cried when I thought there was even a remote possibility I would never see you again… And I, too, have cried when I got hurt. There's nothing wrong with it… Everyone cries, all right? Even me. And, seeing as you've just been hurt—sort of—I'd say some tears are certainly acceptable."

Clearly contemplating this new revelation, Hamish allowed himself to be toted into the cab. "Oh…" The small boy's brows tugged together. "'Kay, Daddy…" It was clear Hamish was thinking deeply, though his body was quickly giving out on him.

As the cab sped back to 221B, Hamish settled himself against his father's welcoming chest, and allowed John to hand him tiny pieces of fruit, which he slowly and tiredly ate for the duration of the cab ride. By the time he was finally carried out of the taxi, the small boy was all-but asleep.

"I am so proud of you, Hamish. You're a very brave little boy."

"Mmm… I is happy, Daddy," the little boy declared with a yawn.

"Oh? And why's that?" Sherlock began to ascend the stairs.

"Ah'cose Hame does has good Daddy."

Sherlock paused his ascending. "Do you think so?"

"Uh-hmm… Does make Hame happy ah'cose got ouch an' is nice' an…" A yawn, which was accompanied by a positively adorable exhale of air. "'An Daddy does give Hame lots of kisses at make 'etter when ouched. Is good, Daddy… And my John is good. I 'ove lot, Da'ey… Hame has… Lots good… Has… Mmm."

Feeling that familiar flutter warming his chest, Sherlock glanced downward to find Hamish had fallen asleep, curled against his chest. His small hands were curled and both resting against the small expanse of skin that could be seen peeking out of his jacket, just above his collarbone.

"I love you, too, Hamish," the detective rumbled with a chuckle, taking one of the little boy's tiny hands in his own and pressing a kiss to the little, curled fingers. "I'm going to take him up and put him down for the nap," he informed John quietly.

"Right, then. Sleep well, little man. You've earned it," the doctor chuckled, pressing a kiss of his own to Hamish's temple.

Smiling, Sherlock slowly and carefully toted his son up to his room. With the precision and tenderness of a father, he laid Hamish on the tiny bed and then carefully tugged of his shoes, socks, and tiny jeans before gathering him in his arms once again, one-handedly pulling back the covers, and then tucking him under. The detective cocked his head to the side as a few fingers absently stroked over Hamish's forehead, while his other hand rested on the little boy's stomach, gently rising and falling with each tiny breath.

Suddenly smiling at the sight in front of him, Sherlock bent down, removing his fingers, and placed his lips to Hamish's forehead. He knew that when his son awake, the incident would be mostly forgotten, and all would return to its normal, somewhat crazy, content state.

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Does feel 'etter," Hamish whispered, too tired to even bother opening his eyes. "Tank'su or… Or a kiss."

Sherlock merely chuckled in response, pressed a kiss to the tip of his son's nose and, after hearing his breathing depend and even out, let himself from the room. _Thank you for the kiss._


	48. Suggestion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there guys! Sorry about the wait, but I've had extracurriculars that just recently picked up, and as such I've had no time to write! But thank you all so much for your patience, I truly do appreciate it! =) You guys are so wonderful and lovely, and I cannot believe how much support this story has received; your reviews and kudos and bookmarks, and just your readership always make my day. So thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy!

"We are taking a break!" John declared cheerfully as he entered the kitchen, where Sherlock and Hamish were seated at the table, eating dinner.

"What?" Sherlock asked mid-bite, sending his flat mate a look of clear confused, disbelief... And maybe a tad of worry that the doctor had lost some sensible part of his mind.

"No, no. I mean it... We are going to be taking a sort of holiday," John began to explain as he sat down. "You know, to get away from all the craziness that has been happening around here lately. I know I could certainly use a break, and I'm sure Hamish here would love a chance to see something new, and expereicne some new things, yeah? Hmm?" the doctor added with a playful ruffle of the small boy's curls. Though it went unnoticed, as Hamish was too busy scowling at the food on his plate.

"Here you are." Still gazing worriedly at his flat mate, Sherlock leant forward and scooped a bit of the egg his son was desperately trying to eat onto a spoon. "Open," he added, lips twitching into a smile when Hamish took the utensil from him and haphazardly shoved it into his mouth. "That works as well. Now. John. We are not going on a holiday. Hamish is perfectly fine, I have absolutely no interest in leaving the flat for any length of time, and if you want to go on a holiday, go out and... go to a pub or something with Lestrade."

John merely raised an unamused eyebrow in response. "No."

A sigh. "John."

"It's not up for negotiation. Besides, I've already booked it. We head out next week."

"John!" Sherlock groaned, pressing a palm to each temple. The detective barely noticed when Hamish uttered a tiny, "B-bye, Daddy. I is done. Talk nice 'ease," before hopping off his chair and toddling away into the sitting room. "We do not need to go on holiday, and we most certainly to not need to go on holiday to whatever absolutely ridiculous theme-park you've booked us into."

John merely smirked in response and crossed his arms over his chest. "Too bad. We're going." Deciding he would not wait for further verbal assault, the doctor quickly left the kitchen table, leaving his frowning flat mate. "Hamish?" he called, quickly checking in the sitting room, where the little boy had wandered off into.

"He'o, John!" came said boy's voice. John turned to his right to find Hamish was slowly hopping his way down the stairs, little arms full of stuffed animals and blankets from his room.

"What are you doing, bud?" John asked with a chuckle at the sight.

"I make ah—oof!" Hamish scowled when several stuffed animals fell free and tumbled down the stairs.

"How about some help, hmm?"

"'Es 'ease, John. I can't not do."

Smiling, John quickly ascended the stairs, picking up the fallen toys as he went, and then took the pile from Hamish's tiny arms. "There, now. That's better isn't—"

"John!" came Sherlock's voice suddenly. The doctor heard rapid footsteps, and then suddenly his flat mate was at the landing, clutching his mobile, and glaring up at him.

"Problem?" John snickered, feigning innocence.

"How did you know I would call? You told them to expect a call from me, and as such I am unable to cancel the room!" the detective huffed.

"I knew you'd somehow manage to figure out which hotel I'd called, and would probably attempt to cancel the room. Sorry," John laughed.

"Daddy! Daddy help!" Rather oblivious, Hamish attempted to dash down the stairs—now John was carrying the heavy load—though his small legs only permitted him to do so much. Once at the bottom, the little boy tugged on his father's trousers, signaling he wished to be lifted up.

Still scowling at his smirking flat mate, Sherlock bent down and settled Hamish against his hip. He was about to start another well-planned rant when he felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around his neck. "Oh." Sherlock's gaze softened as he heard Hamish murmur cheerfully into his skin, "He'o, Daddy."

"It's only been a few minutes," the detective chuckled. After sending one last scowl towards John, Sherlock toted Hamish into the sitting room, where he set the little boy on the ground. "You've missed me that much? In just those few moments?"

"Mmm-hmm!"

"Well... That's very kind of you, Hamish." With a smile, Sherlock placed a kiss to the little boy's brow. "Now," the detective continued, crouching down and gently placing a hand to either side of Hamish's abdomen. "May I ask why John is currently holding every blanket, pillow, and stuffed animal you own?" he asked with a raised brow.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy!" Oblivious once again to the hint of sarcasm lacing his father's voice, Hamish—grinning and giggling—pulled out of his father's grasp and quickly retrieved a book that was almost bigger than him. With a soft grunt of effort, the little boy set the children's book on the ground.

Sherlock watched in fond amusement, as his son began to slowly flip through the large pages, chewing absently on his tongue. "Do you need help, Hamish?" the detective chuckled when the little boy kept trying to turn the pages, but was getting them stuck against his legs, as he was kneeling on top of the book.

"Uhh... No, Daddy?"

"Here, love." Chuckling fondly, Sherlock left his seat on the couch and, after playfully hoisting Hamish into the air above his head, sat back down and placed the small boy in his lap. "Now," he breathed with a smile, taking a moment to press a ticklish kiss to his son's bare stomach. "What are we looking for, hmm?" With a hand wrapped around Hamish's small middle, Sherlock began slowly flipping through the pages, waiting until the little boy tapped on his knuckles.

"Is, Daddy."

"This one?" Sherlock asked, gazing at one of the two pages.

"'Es, Daddy." With a smile, Hamish leaned forward and placed a chubby hand to one of the colourful pictures.

"Oh," Sherlock chuckled in understanding. "You're wanting to build a blanket fort?" The detective gazed at the picture in the book; several blankets draped over a series of chairs, in turn creating a sort of fort.

"'Es, Daddy! Will help I an' John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, want to help us?"

Sherlock turned to the doorway to find his flat mate smirking at him, arms still full of blankets and stuffed animals.

"Oh, uhh... No thank you, Hamish. Blanket forts are not really my—"

"No is help, Daddy?" Hamish asked suddenly, tugging at the expanse of shirt covering his father's stomach.

Sherlock turned his gaze to the little boy. "Well, I... Hamish, I have work to do, love, and I'm sure John's experience with such things is far superior to mine..."

"'Ease, Daddy. Not is be hard. Hame an' John can help, Daddy."

Sherlock stared down into his son's wide, pleading, impossibly earnest eyes. With a fond eyeroll and a huff of breath, the detective brushed the back of his hand across Hamish's forehead and allowed himself to cave— just as he had expected he inevitably would. "Fine. But I am not staying in it."

 

 

 

 

 

"Insufferable," Sherlock muttered as—thirty minutes later—he lay on his back in the blanket fort, eyes closed, fingers pressed to his lips. "Said I wouldn't…"

Nearly every sheet, blanket, toy, and pillow in the flat had been transported into the tiny sitting room. The blankets and sheets had been draped over John's chair, Sherlock's, and the chair from the sitting room table. All of the pillows and blankets were then shoved into the space provided, that John, Hamish, and eventually a very-grumpy-Sherlock had managed to squeeze into.

"Insufferable," the detective muttered again with an unhappy twitch of his lips.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John laughed as he began propping pillows against the hearth, so as to prevent Hamish hitting his head.

"'Es, Daddy! Did make blak'net fort." With an elated sigh of joy, Hamish crawled over to his father's form and tugged at a lock of the detective's curls. When nothing happened, the little boy collapsed onto Sherlock's head with a giggle. "Daddy, up now," he laughed against the detective's nose.

"Oh! Hamish," Sherlock scolded as his son collapsed against him, though his tone was light-hearted. "I am rather incapable of 'getting up' with you on my face," he chuckled. With a fond smile, the detective pursed his lips against the fingers resting against his skin, giving them a kiss.

"Oh! Sorry, Daddy." Hamish quickly slid off his father's face. "Is up now?" the little boy asked, deep green eyes wide with genuine enquiry.

Lips quirking at the corners, Sherlock gazed at his little son out of the corner of his eyes. "Ohh," he sighed, rolling onto his side. "You can be most persuasive," the detective chuckled deeply, emphasizing his point by bopping Hamish on the nose. "Yes," he whispered. "I am 'up.'"

"'Kay, Daddy. Good." With a little exhale of breath, Hamish quickly found the item that had spawned the very idea of building a blanket fort, and dragged the large book back with him, setting it on the ground. "'Kay, Daddy. Will 'ead to Hame?"

"Oh... Well, of course I will, Hamish," Sherlock answered with a loving quirk of his lips. The detective quickly grabbed the book and—before propping it up in front of him—patted the blanket-clad floor in front of his abdomen.

"Will 'ead, Daddy?" Hamish asked with a small smile.

"Well of course I will, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, gesturing once again.

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy!" With a grin and a triumphant clap of his hands, Hamish crawled over to his father and settled himself so his back was against the detective's stomach.

"Right, then. From the beginning, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy! M'course!" Hamish giggled.

"Of course?" Sherlock laughed heartily, having never heard his son use such an expression.

"'Es! M'course."

"Well where did you hear such a thing?" Sherlock chuckled once again.

"Ah Daddy," the little boy explained with a smile.

"Me?"

"'Es. Say at Unc'mel Greg an' John lots, Daddy."

"Ah, I see." Sharing a smile with his flat mate, Sherlock merely pressed a fond kiss to his son's temple and opened the book, ready to read. "Such a clever boy," the detective added in a whisper, taking a moment to stare in tender wonder at the little human being that was his son. When he could tell John was smiling at him, Sherlock cleared his throat an then shook his head. "Good?"

"'Es, Daddy. Oh. John?" Hamish asked softly, attempting to look over the top of the tall book. Sherlock obliged by lowering it. "Here 'ease, John. Help Daddy read." With a small, expectant smile, the little boy gestured to a space next to his father's head. "Can come help."

"What? Oh. No, that's all right, bud, really. I'll just listen," John chuckled with a fond smile. "But thank you for the offer, little man."

"Oh. 'Kay, John." Though slightly disappointed, but overall unfazed by this small bump in his plan, Hamish placed himself once again against his father's stomach, and settled in for the story.

"Right, then... Here we go." With a deep breath, Sherlock lifted the book once again, and began.

 

 

 

 

"The end," Sherlock whispered, slowly and carefully lowering the book. With careful movements, the detective glanced down at the little boy now sleeping against his stomach. "He's asleep, John." The detective couldn't help but smile as he noticed Hamish's mouth was hanging open and his small hands were curled inwards on themselves.

"Mmm. So he is," the doctor chuckled with a fond smile at his little flat mate. "He missed his nap today, didn't he?"

"Mmm," Sherlock merely hummed in response. With delicate touches, the detective gently stroked the tips of his fingers over Hamish's forehead, brushing some unruly curls out of the way as he did so. "I'll just let him sleep, then..." With a smile, Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to his son's temple and then carefully set his small form on the ground—ignoring the smile he knew was John's lips when he began to delicately set the little boy's head up on a pillow, and tuck a series of blankets around him. "There. John, do stop smirking. Now... You have absolutely got your heart set on going on this ridiculous holiday?"

John heaved a sigh. "Sherlock. We are going. It's not negotiable. You're just going to have to swallow that pride and ego for a day or two and allow yourself a little bit of fun."

"Fun?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "Solving crimes—that's fun. Investigating murders—that's fun. Going on some ridiculous holiday? Anything but."

John merely smirked. "Too bad."

With a shake of his head and rather frustrated ruffle of his curls, Sherlock rolled himself onto his back and closed his eyes, deciding to make the most of this time. "Dear Lord..." With a long exhale of breath, the detective placed his hands atop his chest, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and allowed himself a moment to think about the latest case. "A holiday. Absurd."

John rolled his eyes and decided he would just stay and monitor Hamish.

After several long moments of silence, the doctor could hear just the slightest change in his flat mate's slow, careful breathing. And then there was a frustrated exhale of breath, followed by a, "Fine."

John grinned triumphantly. "Knew it," he chuckled, lying down on his side, and settling comfortably into the cushions of pillows, sheets, and blankets.

"Oh, shut up, John."

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts by the feeling of a small body crawling and settling on top of his chest. The detective soon realized that he had fallen asleep, and Hamish's crawling on top of him had caused him to awaken. "Oh."

"He'o, Daddy. Did seep," Hamish whispered as he snuggled against his father's chest.

"Yes... I did. How odd," Sherlock yawned with a frown. "I rarely sleep." Forcing his eyes open, the detective glance down at his son's form and smiled when he saw the little boy toying with the buttons on his shirt. "Where's John—Oh." Sherlock chuckled aloud when he saw the doctor had fallen asleep, as well, with his mouth hanging open rather obscenely, and his arms draped over his own waist and face.

"John did go seep, Daddy," Hamish explained matter-of-factly.

"Mmm. So he did. Now the question is: why haven't you?" With a yawn, Sherlock tiredly ruffled his son's curls.

"No does have seep, Daddy," the little boy explained.

"Oh? Is that so?" With a fond chuckle, Sherlock glanced at the watch on his wrist, and was able to make out the time. "Hamish, it really is rather late. We need to get you to bed."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." With a content sigh of breath, Hamish allowed himself to be carried out of the blanket fort by his father. "I is... Not tired, Daddy."

"Not at all?" the detective chuckled incredulously as he settled his son against his chest.

"Nope, Daddy."

Sherlock paused the swaying he didn't realize he'd started to glance down at his quickly-tiring son. "'Nope?' And where did you hear that expression?" the detective asked in fond amusement.

"John does say lots, Daddy," Hamish explained with a tiny nod of his head. The little boy frowned suddenly. "Not like lots," he added, sounding almost confused.

"Well, then don't say it, hmm?" Sherlock rumbled, a hint of a chuckle rippling through the deep sound.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy." Content once again, Hamish rested his head atop his father's shoulder, and took a deep breath. "Tank'su, Daddy."

"Oh? And for what am I owed such a lovely pleasure?" Sherlock responded with a rather fond—if not sly—quirk of his lips.

"Did make a bla'net fort, Daddy," the little boy explained matter-of-factly, sounding as if he was rather confused that his father did not know what he was talking about.

"Ah. Apologies. Well, you're most certainly welcome." The detective's lips twitched irritably at the corners. "And, I must admit that such a thing was not as awful as I had originally anticipated." This emitted a giggle from the tiny boy resting against his chest.

"Did like?"

Noticing that Hamish was now gazing up at him, Sherlock glanced down at the little boy out of the corner of his eyes and—after daring a 'careful' glance to his sleeping flat mate—whispered into his son's ear, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Uh-huh, Daddy," Hamish answered truthfully with a little nod of his head.

"Good, good. Not that I had any suspicions, of course. Well, with that knowledge in mind, you must promise never to tell John, hmm?"

"Prom'kiss, Daddy," Hamish answered, voice just barely a whisper.

"Right, then. In that case: I enjoyed the blanket fort quite a lot," Sherlock whispered into his son's ear, smiling as the little boy's auburn curls tickled his nose and lips.

Pressing his hands tiredly against his eyes, Hamish began to giggle into his father's neck. "'Kay, Daddy. I prom'kiss. Not will say John."

"There's my boy," Sherlock chuckled deeply. "Now, then. I say we head off to bed, hmm?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Kay, Daddy. Does sound good."

"Good. Down?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy."

"Right, then." Sherlock carefully set his son on the ground. "Up we go."

With tired steps and hops, Hamish made his way up the stairs to his room, with a small amount of help from his father. "Up 'ease, Daddy," the little boy yawned with a little tug to his covers.

"Of course." Obliging, Sherlock lifted Hamish up by the armpits and sat him gently on his tiny bed. "Right, then. Under we go." Having noticed that his son was all-but asleep, the detective tucked the little boy under the covers, making sure his pillows were placed properly, and his arms were free. "Good?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered with a tiny nod. "Kisses."

With a tender smile, Sherlock brushed the curls from his son's forehead and—allowing his hand to remain on the crown of his son's head—pressed a soft kiss to the little boy's brow. "Kisses. Goodnight, Hamish. Sleep well, all right?"

"Uh-hmm... 'Ka... 'Kay, Daddy."

With a smile, Sherlock silently backed away from his son's bed and, once sure the little boy was sleeping, crept his way back down the stairs. The detective glanced at his sleeping flat mate, and then with a smirk, decided to allow the doctor to sleep on the incredibly uncomfortable floor, as way of paying him back for the blanket fort... And the holiday. "Sleep well, John."

With a smirk and a muffled scoff, the detective glided away into his own room to think about the case. Upon reaching his room, however, and seeing how comfortable his bed looked, Sherlock decided thinking could wait for tomorrow and, after changing into just a pair of pajama pants, the detective crawled into bed, and quickly fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

"Da'ey?"

"Hmm? Ha... Hamish?" Sherlock murmured groggily. There was the sound of tiny footsteps moving closer.

"'Es Daddy. I is Hame. Daddy?"

"Mmm?" Opening his eyes, Sherlock found his son's smaller form gazing at him, a blanket clutched in his hands. "Hamish, love, why on earth aren't you sleeping?"

"Ah'cose I did have a dream," the little boy explained tiredly.

"Was it a bad dream?" Sherlock asked, sitting up and pulling his son onto the bed with him.

"Mmm-hmm, Daddy. Not was good. I does have scared... Can... Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish," the detective murmured gently.

"Can I seep in wif'h Daddy?" Hamish asked, voice just barely a whisper. "Ah'cose Hame's room has lots that is be scared," the little boy added hurriedly, as if in explanation.

With a somewhat bittersweet smile, Sherlock patted the space next to him, opening the covers. "Of course you can, Hamish." The detective could hear the little boy release a tiny breath of held air.

"Tank'su, Daddy." Sniffling softly, and with his blanket in hand, Hamish crawled to where his father was holding open the duvet, and carefully slotted himself in. With a subdued shiver, the little boy huddled closer to Sherlock's warmer form, curving his spine into the shape of the detective's abdomen.

"Now, then," Sherlock murmured, as he settled back into the bed, lowering the covers with him. "What kind of a bad dream was this? Care to share?"

"Why, Daddy?" Hamish whispered with a yawn. Sherlock could see the little boy toying with the corner of his blanket.

"Because sometimes it helps," the detective explained. "Sometimes talking makes the dream seem less frightening."

"Oh. Well... No 'ease, Daddy. No I does want to say."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed. A small frown creased his sharp features. "You're sure?"

"Mmm-hmm. I is be 'kay, Daddy. Was just little bad."

"Little bad... Well, if you're sure..." Sherlock raised a skeptical brow, but moved so he was lying on his back, nonetheless.

"'Es. I is." Clearly deciding this conversation was to end, Hamish rolled his little self over and hesitantly snuggled closer to the side of his father's abdomen. The little boy sighed contently. "'Kay, Daddy. Nigh' night. Tank'su."

"For what now?" Sherlock chuckled. Feeling the pull of exhaustion quickly begin to tug at his eyelids, the detective began to card through his son's auburn curls, using slender fingers to brush away the locks that always fell into place just above the little boy's brow. "Hmm?"

"Will scared away bad 'tings," Hamish replied with a yawn. "Ah-night, Daddy." Having obviously decided this was sufficient enough explanation, the little boy took a deep breath, and then closed his eyes. "'Ove."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, smiling when he felt one of Hamish's hands had made its way to his chest. "I scare away the bad things..." Quite liking the sound of that—and the fact that Hamish even thought him able to do such a thing—Sherlock stroked his fingers through the little boy's hair once more, placed his large hand atop his son's, and then allowed himself the rare opportunity of sleep. "Love you, too."


	49. Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge hello and thank you to all of the wonderful readers of this story, to whom I also owe a huge apology. Not only for the shortness of this chapter, but also because of the lack of updating recently. I've been in a musical production, one which I did not realize would require 6+ hours of rehearsal every day. =( Between classes and this rather crazy musical practice, time to write, eat, sleep, get schoolwork done, and be prepared on my musical material has been rather crammed and sorely lacking. So, I do sincerely apologize! So sorry, all! But, luckily it closes on Saturday, so I should have much more free time. I also apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but I wanted to get something out to you guys. So here's a little start to the holiday this trio of flat mates will be going on. Please bear with me this next week, and once again, so sorry for my crazy musical schedule that has literally consumed the last two months of my life! Thanks, all! I cannot possibly express the love I have for each and every one of you!

"What," Sherlock spat, staring in disgust at the article of clothing John was holding before him, "the bloody hell are those?"

"Swim trunks."

"No… No! Oh, my dear Lord." Presing the heel of his palms into his eyes, Sherlock sat down on his bed, managing to avoid the various bags and articles of clothing that were strewn about. "Swimming," he whispered. "You're taking us to a bloody swimming park."

"Mmm. Not quite," John chuckled with a smile.

"I hate you."

"Daddy! Not nice."

Sherlock parted his hands just enough so he could see his son's small form toddle into the room. "Apologies," the detective grumbled. With a huff of breath, he allowed his hands to fall onto his lap.

"Tank'su, Daddy. Up 'ease?"

"Of course." Forcing himself not to glad at his flat mate, Sherlock hoisted Hamish onto the bed.

"John?" the little boy asked once he was properly settled.

"Yeah, bud?"

"I still not does stand," Hamish explained, growing at the half-full suitcases around him.

"Well, we're going on a bit of a holiday, Hame."

"Oh. Why, John?"

"Sherlock, stop smirking. Why? Well, because I thought it might be rather fun to get away for a few days."

"Is be 'eave, John?"

"Well, not permanently. Only for a few days."

"Oh. 'Kay. Down 'ease, Daddy?"

"Oh? And why's that?" Sherlock chuckled, rather fondly, as he set his son on the ground, removing him from the bed he'd just placed him on moments ago.

"Ah'cos I needs ah say b-bye." Deciding this was enough explanation, Hamish gave a content little nod of his head and scurried out of the room. Sherlock watched with a loving smile as the little boy's form escaped through the door.

Both flat mates paused when they heard Hamish's tiny voice. "B-bye, wall. I be back soon. John say go on ah hol… Uhm… Hol'miday? 'Es. Hol'miday. So be gone. But come back. 'Kay. B-bye." A few light footfalls. "B-bye, TV. Keep Tom Tank on 'ease."

Sherlock allowed himself a few chuckles before rather grumpily returning to the packing. "Oh, cheer up, Sherlock. You might even find yourself having a bit of fun."

"Doubtful."

"Mmm. Perhaps." Deciding to confuse his friend even more, John pursed his lips in an unamused fashion and silently left the room, to help Hamish with his goodbyes.

"Perhaps? What on earth am I supposed to…" Sherlock turned to find his flat mate had left. "Insufferable." Frowning and mumbling to himself, the detective continued all of the packing that would be required. All of his clothes had been more or less packed, and all that was left was everything Hamish would be needing. And, despite hating having to admit other people were right, Sherlock knew John was correct when he said Hamish would have a good time. "Again. Insufferable."

Throwing the top of one of the suitcases shut with more force than was probably necessary, the detective quickly finished the rest of the packing, finding some humor in listening to his son's 'goodbyes' to practically every part of the flat.

 

 

 

 

 

"No, Daddy. I stay now 'ease." With a frown, Hamish promptly seated his little self on the floor and crossed his legs.

Sherlock merely raised an unamused eyebrow in response. "Hamish," the detective started, gesturing to the item that was currently resting on the floor next to his seat, "you are being rat her ridiculous. It's only a car seat."

"Not like, Daddy. I wants ah stay Daddy. Like in—"

"Yes, Hamish, I understand that you would prefer to sit with John and I like we do in the cabs. But—unfortunately—John has apparently rented a car for this rather ridiculous endeavor, meaning I—unfortunately—am required to drive. Therefore, you are rather unable to stay with me anyway."

"No 'ease, Daddy."

"Hamish. This is not negotiable. We are traveling a ways, we are not taking a cab, I am unable to sit with you, therefore you must be seated in a carseat. My sincerest apologies, love, but there's nothing I can do," Sherlock rather chuckled, quirking his lips in a sympathetic fashion.

"Why, Daddy? Why Hame does have?" Hamish asked with genuine inquiry. The little boy permitted himself a quick glance up at his tall father.

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock crouched down so he was more or else eye-level with his son. "You must use the car seat so that, should we get into an accident, the likelihood of injury and/or death are greatly reduced," the detective answered solemnly.

"Oh." Clearly contemplating this new information, Hamish began to play with his foot, slowly rolling it back and forth against the wood floor. "Not does like ouchies, Daddy…"

"I quite agree," Sherlock answered with a rumble.

"… 'Kay."

"Good. That's what I thought. Either way, I wouldn't have taken no for an answer." Pressing his lips into a fond smile, Sherlock quickly lunged forward, swiping Hamish up and over his shoulder, where he held the little boy in place with one hand. "As I said" not negotiable." After placing a cheerful kiss to his son's temple, Sherlock picked up the carseat and made his way down the stairs, Hamish still over his shoulder, down to where John was waiting with the rental car.

"Ah. I see your tactics worked far better than mind did, hmm?"

"Logic, John," Sherlock merely answered, a smirk on his lips. "And honesty. Very powerful."

"… I don't want to know."

"Probably not." Merely chuckling, Sherlock quickly placed the car seat in the back of the rental car, and then proceeded to pass Hamish to John. "Have fun."

 

 

 

 

Some minutes later, a once again unhappy Hamish was getting strapped into the car seat by a smirking Sherlock and a frustrated John. "Don't like, Daddy."

"I know. But it's only for a few hours," the detective chuckled, as he finished doing up the last of the straps. "And John will be seated back there with you the whole time."

"Oh. Stay, John?"

"Sure, if that'll make you happy," the doctor chuckled in exasperation.

"'Es, 'ease. Lots happy."

"Excellent."

Soon after, the three flat mates were on the road, Sherlock driving, John seated in the back with Hamish, watching Thomas the Tank Engine on his flat mate's mobile.

"I cannot believe you downloaded this many episodes," the doctor muttered with a hint of a smirk.

"I cannot believe you aren't thanking me," Sherlock answered, equally snide. John merely scoffed fondly in response. "I must admit, he's distracted."

"Of course he is."

"What, Daddy?"

"Nothing, love."

"Be done soon?"

"Just about another hour or so, and then yes, we'll be done."

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Foods 'ease."

"Oh. We're getting a bit hungry for dinner back here, I think," John chuckled upon hearing his tiny flat mate's stomach rumble.

"Ah. Right."

 

 

 

 

"Hamish, we've had this conversation before. You don't like spaghetti. I promise. Fish and chips?"

"Can Hame try spla'hetti?"

Despite being rather used to this conversation, Sherlock found he quite enjoyed the new tactic Hamish had tried to persuade him with. The detective heaved a sigh. "… I suppose you can try it. But only because you're so very clever," he added with a playful bop to his son's nose.

"'Es! 'Kay, Daddy! Tank'su!"

"You're very welcome. But. I'm also ordering the fish and chips for you to eat when I'm proved correct, all right?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

"Right, then. So, he'll have the spaghetti, as well as an order of fish and chips. John?" The waitress, who'd been listening in amusement to the dialogue between Sherlock and Hamish quickly jotted down the order, and then turned her attention to the other, more quiet member of the trio. "And for you sir?"

"I'll just do the pasta, thanks." The waitress hurried away.

"So, you're not going to tell me anything you've got planned?" Sherlock asked with a raised brow, pushing Hamish's drink closer toward him when he saw the little boy struggling to reach it.

"Nope. I've got everything all planned out."

"Mmm. And how, may I ask, are getting the money to pay for this lovely trip?"

John merely pursed his lips.

Sherlock had to stop himself from allowing his eyes to roll back into his head. "Mycroft," he muttered, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

John merely smirked.

 

 

 

 

"And?" Sherlock asked with a quirk of his lips after feeding Hamish a small forkful of spaghetti. The little boy chewed for a moment, expression one of mild confusion.

After finishing, Hamish swallowed, and—bottom lip protruding slightly—glanced between the two meals in front of him. "'Kay, Daddy." Having made up his mind, the little boy leaned forward, making an eager grab for a chip. "Fishies 'ease, Daddy."

"Told you so," Sherlock whispered with a smile as he pushed the plate closer to Hamish's tiny seated form.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy giggled with a tiny smile.

"Hmm."

 

 

 

 

"John?"

"Yes, little man?"

"Is almost done? Not like 'tis." With a frown, Hamish poked at the restraint holding him into the car seat.

"Yeah, bud, we're almost there, just a few more minutes, all right?"

"'Kay, John," the little boy mumbled with a frown, quite clearly running out of steam.

Several minutes later, Sherlock had pulled up to what he considered to be a fairly decent hotel, and was trying to console Hamish in the back, while John got all the luggage onto a carrier.

"Hamish, love, listen to me," the detective whispered to his small son, who had plopped himself on the concrete ground and was sobbing into the sleeve of his small shirt. "Hamish, everyone wets their pants. It's all right. Really."

After finding his words were having no effect, Sherlock scooped Hamish into his arms and transferred him into the car, where he managed to—despite his son's protests—get some new clothes on him. Once the little boy had been properly changed and redressed, Sherlock pulled his son's small form onto his hip.

"I is sorry, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, burying his face in Sherlock's coat.

"Hamish, you have nothing to be sorry for. You've done nothing wrong. You're just tired; you've had a long day."

"But… But now I is not big more."

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "I see… Hamish, you're still a big boy. Everyone wets their pants, love. It's just part of the process. But you've nothing to feel embarrassed about or sorry for, Hamish, all right? Do you understand?"

A sniffle.

With a bittersweet smile, Sherlock pressed his lips to the little boy's temple and gave him a gentle pat on the bottom. "You're all right, Hamish," the detective murmured against his son's skin. "It was just a little accident. Nothing to worry about… Hmm? Yes?"

Using the sleeve of his small shirt, Hamish ran his arm under his running nose. "'Kay, Daddy. I is still sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," Sherlock murmured with a matter-of-fact twitch of his lips. "You are practically perfect in every way, Hamish," he added with a series of ticklish kisses from the corner of his lips. "We all have accidents, yes?"

"Daddy did?"

"Of course. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually as perfect as everyone seems to think I am." The detective managed to draw a few meek giggles from his son by winking playfully. "There's that smile I love so much," he added with a kiss.

"So… So Daddy did have 'stakes?"

"Of course I did. More often than I'd care to admit, actually. Everyone makes mistakes. And that's perfectly all right. This is this first accident you've had yet, which is quite an accomplishment, I might say."

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sniffled with a hint of a giggle.

"There's my boy. Now, then! Seeing as we've let John do all of the unpacking, I say we head inside, hmm?"

"'Es 'ease."

"Very good… Feeling better?"

"'Es, Daddy. Lots 'etter." Settling in, Hamish rested his head atop Sherlock's shoulder and allowed himself to be carried to the back of the car, where John had finished piling up the several suitcases onto a carrier.

"Finished?" Sherlock asked while simultaneously running a few fingers over and through Hamish's auburn curls.

"Uhh… Yeah, I think so. Ready?" John sighed.

"Mmm. Quite."

"Good."

The trio made their way into the nice-looking hotel and to the reception desk. "So," John asked, while they waited in line, "I assume the catastrophe has been resolved, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered as he adjusted a stray lock of said little boy's hair.

"Good, good… Poor little guy."

"Mmm. But he's a resilient one, luckily. He'll be just fine. He's just overly tired and worn out today, I think."

John merely smiled at his flat mates in response.

 

 

 

 

"Wow, Daddy," Hamish whispered in complete awe as he toddled around the large room they'd just checked into, clinging to a few of his father's long, slender fingers.

"Remind me to punch your brother when we get back," John muttered with a squared jaw as he stared at the two beds side by side.

Sherlock merely smirked in response.

"Oh! Oh, look!" Releasing his grip, the little boy made a wobbly dash to the mini fridge tucked under one of the desks. "Is tiny, Daddy," he laughed, pressing two chubby hands to the silver surface of the fridge.

"Yes, I see," Sherlock answered somewhat distractedly, as he was busy attempting to organizing both his and Hamish's clothes in the given space provided.

"Oh! Oh, John! Look, like home!" Grinning, Hamish hurried his small self over to the window and tugged happily on the curtains.

"Yes, I see," John laughed, hurrying over and lifting his small flat mate up so he could see out the window.

"Oh," Hamish whispered, as he stared down at the ground. "Lots tall, John," he informed the doctor earnestly.

"Yes, we are rather high up, aren't we?"

"Mmm-hmm?"

Smiling, and so impossibly glad to have such a lovely little flat mate, John pressed a quick kiss to Hamish's brow. "Right, then. Come along, little man. It's late, we've had a long day, and you need to go to bed!"

Knowing Sherlock was too engrossed in his current mini-project, John toted his giggling flat mate into the bathroom and managed to find the little boy's toothbrush and special toothpaste. "Right, then. Here we are. Open."

After opening his mouth, Hamish allowed John to place the brush in his mouth before taking it in his smaller hands and more or less rubbing it back and forth across his teeth.

"There we are," John chuckled once the little boy was done. "Good man. Now. Pajamas."

"'Es!"

 

 

 

 

"Sherlock."

"Mmm."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm? What? Yes?" Sherlock turned around from where he was attempting to fit the clothes he'd packed into the small closet provided in the room. The detective turned around to find Hamish seated on the bed, playing with the patterns in the fabric, dressed in his favorite pajamas. "Ah. Bedtime, is it?"

"Mmm. And, seeing as your brother only booked one room, we are rather required to go to bed at much the same time."

"Right." Smiling at his completely amused son, Sherlock grabbed a pair of pajama trousers and a t-shirt, quickly changed in the bathroom and then sauntered back into the large room. "Right, then. Two beds…" Realizing he'd gained Hamish's attention, the detective raised his eyebrows. "Who would you rather sleep with, then? John or myself?"

Contemplating, Hamish chewed on his bottom lip, glancing between the two beds. Coming to a conclusion, the little boy slid himself off the bed, only to be quickly caught by John at the bottom when he stumbled a bit.

"Mine, then?" the doctor chuckled as he lifted his little flat mate up and set him atop his bed.

"'Es 'ease! Good. Is much nice," Hamish explained, patting the blanket with a single hand, even though the two beds were exactly the same.

John and Sherlock merely smiled.

"My bed it is, then!"

"John?"

"Yeah, bud? Oh. Here, Hame, let me help." John laughed aloud when he saw Hamish attempting to pull the severely-tuckied-in blankets and sheets out from the top of the bed and under the pillows.

"Tank'su, John."

Eventually, Sherlock was sitting atop his bed, reading through a series of cold cases Lestrade had handed him before they left, Hamish was snuggled against John's back, with the doctor sound asleep.

Soon, Sherlock heard the scuffling of a tiny body scampering out of a bed and onto the floor, followed closely by a quiet, "Daddy?"

Putting his file down, Sherlock playfully laid down on the bed and leaned over the side. "Yes?"

"I can come up an' seep?"

Smiling and with a chuckle, Sherlock reached down and helped his son up onto the bed, as it was set much higher than what the little boy was sued to at home. "Now then," the detective sighed fondly as he undid the covers from the top of the bed and allowed Hamish to crawl under. "Why the switch, hmm?" After ruffling some of his son's curls, Sherlock soon followed suit and crawled under the covers, shoving away the case files.

"John is be loud ah'night, Daddy."

Sherlock nearly laughed aloud when he realized Hamish was referring to the doctor's light snoring.

"Ah. I see. Well, you are most certainly welcome to sleep with me. After all, it would be highly rude of me to confine you to the floor, wouldn't it?"

"'Es would, Daddy," Hamish giggled, snuggling further under the covers.

Sherlock gazed down at his son, smiling when the little boy's big, green eyes turned their attention up to him. "Oh, Hamish. I do love you," he murmured. The detective couldn't help but rumble a chuckle when Hamish's eyebrows rose and his eyes brightened.

"I does 'ove , Daddy," the little boy whispered, taking a moment to crawl out from under the covers. "Lots 'ove." With a rather precious smile, Hamish placed a hand to either side of his father's face and then placed a haphazard kiss to the detective's cheek. "'Kay, Daddy. Turn."

"Ah, of course. My turn." Smiling when Hamish turned his head to the side and quirked his lips to the side, Sherlock obliged by pressing a kiss to his son's soft cheek. "There. Better?"

"'Etter."

"Good."

"'Es." With a small smile, Hamish once again burrowed under the many layers of covers and sheets and then settled himself close to his father's side, seeking the warmth of the detective's bigger body. "Nigh' night, Daddy," the little boy whispered, eyes quickly slipping shut.

"Goodnight, Hamish. Sleep well, all right? I have a feeling we've got a bit of a day ahead of us tomorrow," Sherlock chuckled, voice just a whisper as he began to card a few fingers through his son's curls.

Hamish merely nodded in response. "Ka… 'Kay, Daddy. Hmm."

Knowing the little boy had fallen asleep, Sherlock leaned down, adjusting the blanket so it further covered Hamish's body, and then pressed another kiss to his curls before whispering into the silky hair, "God help us."


	50. A Day Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the wait, but I hope you like this chapter! You all are awesome, thank you so much! As usual, please forgive the mistakes! =P Thanks, everyone! Have a great weekend!

"John… John? Up 'ease. Is Hame. Not is Daddy… Uhm… John?" Hamish whispered loudly, prodding at the doctor's leg with a single finger. When John failed to wake, but rather continued to snore softly, the little boy furrowed his brow and crawled over the doctor's body. "John?" he whispered again, gently tapping said doctor's cheek.

"Mmm."

Hamish gasped slightly when the doctor shifted, accidentally throwing an arm close to his head.

"Hmm… Hamish?" John grumbled, opening his eyes.

"'Es, John. He'o. I is wake."

"Mmm. Yes, I can see that." Groaning as he opened his eyes and stretched a bit, John groggily sat up in the bed, absentmindedly pulling his tiny flat mate onto his lap. "Good morning, little man."

"Morn'ming," Hamish giggled. After settling into John's lap, the little boy attempted to wrap what bit of the covers he could grab around him.

"Here, allow me." With a smile, John wrapped a bit of the stiff blanket around Hamish's smaller body. "Better?"

"'Es. Lots 'etter, John," the little boy giggled, snuggling into the warmth of the covers.

"Good, good." After giving his small flat mate's curls a playful ruffle, the doctor turned to the right, to find Sherlock was still sound asleep, curled into a bit of a ball, with the covers huddled in a little pile behind him. "Hamish?" John asked with a chuckle, "did you end up sleeping with Daddy last night?"

"'Es! Oh." Suddenly the little boy looked quite sheepish.

"What?" chuckled John.

"I is sorry, John."

"For what, Hame?"

Eyes downcast, Hamish mumbled quietly, "Was loud, John… 'An no I was seeping."

"Ahh," John chuckled in understanding. "I snored."

"'Es. Daddy did say." Hamish gave a tiny nod of his head.

"Yes, I see. Well, it's quite understandable, then, that you would choose Daddy over me, hmm?"

Hamish smiled and then released a small sigh of relief. "'Kay, John," he murmured with a nod. "Good now. Is 'etter."

"Well, good. I'm glad to hear it," John laughed. "Now, then. Seeing as your father is still asleep, I say we give you a bath, little man. You haven't one in a long time, hmm?"

"'Es!" Hamish declared proudly, as if such a thing were a great accomplishment. "Long, John."

With a smile, John scooped Hamish into his arms and toted the little boy to the bathroom. Not wanting to wake his flat mate, the doctor shut the door behind him before placing the little boy on the floor. "Right, then. Bathtime!"

 

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke to the distinct bell-like sounds of his son's laughter leaking out from under the bathroom door. Hearing the splashing sounds that indicated the little boy was getting a bath, Sherlock groggily rolled himself out of the stiff hotel bed and then padded over to the door. The detective smiled when he pressed his ear to the painted wood and heard Hamish animatedly talking to John about something unintelligible. Not wanting to disturb them too much, Sherlock just barely pushed open the door and peeked inside, gaze soft and tender.

"Lots bubbles, John!" Hamish's voice hummed.

"Yes... A bit too much, I'm afraid," the doctor murmured absentmindedly to himself.

Sherlock pushed the door open even further, a smile ghosting over his cupid's bow lips.

"No, John. Can't not have lots much bubbles," Hamish explained matter-of-factly, scooping a pile of them up into his hands and then showing the pile to the doctor, clearly expecting that that explained his reasoning. "See, John? Is 'kay." A delighted gasp. "Daddy! He'o! Is up now!"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, voice low and still rather thick with sleep.

Hamish giggled in delight to himself. "Have bath, Daddy... Oh. Want?" With a smile too innocent to ignore, the little boy held up the pile of bubbles, offering them to the detective.

Sherlock glanced to the little pile of suds and then back to his son's rather precious expression. "Of course I would," he answered, chuckling. A smile on his lips, the detective crossed to the soap-filled bathtub and then crouched down next to his flat mate. When he was sure the doctor was not looking, Sherlock winked playfully at Hamish—earning him a series of lovely giggles—and then held out several slender fingers.

"'Kay... Here go, Daddy." Chewing on his bottom lip, Hamish delicately transferred the pile of bubbles in his own little hands onto his father's much larger fingers. "Good."

"Yes."

"Right," John sighed, attempting to clean up the water that had splashed out of the tub. "We've got a bit of a day ahead of us, so I'm going to go get ourselves ready, then."

"All right." Sherlock gave his flat mate a nod and watched as the doctor exited the bathroom. Realizing he still had the little pile of bubbles in his hands, the detective's lips quirked at the corners as he quickly plopped the suds atop Hamish's head.

"Oh! Daddy!" the small boy laughed, taking some more bubbles in his hands and attempting to toss them at his father.

Sherlock chuckled to himself as he easily caught Hamish's small hands in his own. "Oh, no you don't!" After pressing a playful kiss to the tip of his son's nose, the detective dunked the little boy's soapy hands in the water. "Let's get you washed off, hmm?"

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled, standing up.

"Thank you." Grabbing a cup, Sherlock quickly rinsed off his son's tiny body, found a towel, and then pulled him out of the water. "Right, then. Time to dry." The detective set his son's towel-clad form on the ground and then carefully and gently rubbed the towel over Hamish's wet form. "There we are," he whispered, brushing a thumb over the scar on his son's collarbone that could barely even been seen anymore. "Good?" he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of the little boy's wet curls.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish hummed with a precious smile. "Good. Lots."

"Right, then." Sherlock gave the little boy's middle a pat. "Why don't we go get dressed and see what John has planned for us today?"

"'Kay." Hamish waited patiently while his father wrapped the towel around him once again, and as he was lifted into the detecitve's arms and toted out of the bathroom.

"So, then," the detective asked the doctor, who was busy gathering everything for the day. "Where are we going?"

 

 

 

 

"The zoo?" Sherlock groaned through thin lips.

John merely grinned proudly in response. "Yep! The zoo. This one actually was my idea."

"I'm hardly surprised."

"Come on," the doctor chuckled, gesturing to Hamish, who was practically clinging to Sherlock's leg. "He'll love it."

"We'll see."

John smirked. "There's a train."

"... Possibly."

"Exactly. Here. I'll go pay, you calm him down," John chuckled, gesturing to his tiny, clearly worried flat mate.

"Yes... Oh, dear. Hamish, love, what's the problem?" With a chuckle Sherlock bent down and lifted the little boy into his arms.

"Lots, Daddy," Hamish explained, taking an arm and wrapping it firmly around his father's neck as he settled in closer. "An' is much loud."

"Ah, I see," Sherlock murmured in understanding. "Well..." Attempting to come up with some way to console his son, the detective began to rub a few fingertips up and down the little boy's back. "I suppose there are quite a few people, aren't there?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish practically whimpered with a nod of his head.

"Yes. Well... Just try to think about us, today, hmm? It's just the three of us. We don't need to worry about anyone else. So, just... Try to ignore them, I suppose."

Hamish scowled. "Not nice, Daddy," he scolded, though rather half-heartedly, as it was clear he was considering his father's argument.

Sherlock smiled fondly. "There's my boy. And..." A sly smile quirking over the corners of his lips, the detective leaned close and then whispered, "We will be going on a train ride." Sherlock could practically feel Hamish's mood lighten.

"Real, Daddy?" the little boy gasped softly in amazement.

"Really." Knowing Hamish would be fine when he felt the little boy relax in his arms, Sherlock pressed a tender kiss to his son's cheek and then turned, waiting for John to return.

 

 

 

 

"Tom Tank now, Daddy?" Hamish asked, tugging at his father's fingers.

"No, love, not quite yet. We've not even seen any animals."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy... Daddy?"

Sherlock shared a smile with his flat mate. "Yes?"

"Up 'ease?" The little boy patted his legs. "Are tired, Daddy."

Rolling his eyes playfully, Sherlock bent down and hoisted Hamish onto his hip. "Of course. Better?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Es, Daddy. 'Tank-su."

"You're very welcome. Good manners, love, thank you."

Hamish grinned triumphantly, enjoying the praise.

"Right, then!" John exclaimed, a map in hand. "Where to?"

 

 

 

 

"Bunnies! John, look, bunnies!"

Sherlock practically dropped Hamish, both from the way the little boy was bouncing excitedly in his arms and the sudden outburst. "Yes, yes, bunnies." The detective quickly released his excited son from his arms, watching in mild confusion when the little boy toddled over to a gate, quite literally bouncing with excitement. "What's he talking about?"

"The petting zoo," John answered with a nod, smiling after his tiny flat mate. "They're holding bunnies. Hamish, just a moment, little man!"

"'Kay, John! I waits here!" the small boy called back, his tiny voice just barely making its way over the sounds of shuffling footsteps.

"Petting zoo?" Sherlock asked in confusion.

After taking ahold of Hamish's hand, and making sure he was secure with them, John turned in confusion to his flat mate. "You've never... Been to a petting zoo?"

"Certainly not," Sherlock answered, somewhat in distaste. "I'm not sure I've ever had an interest to."

"Ah. I... Can't really say that I'm surprised."

"Mmm. You have fun. I'll watch."

"Not come, Daddy?" Hamish asked. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that his son's bouncing had stopped.

"Oh, well..."

"'Ease, Daddy? Has bunnies," Hamish pleaded with a smile, attempting to bargain.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pushed his long coat behind him as he crouched down so he was eye-level with the little boy. "You really want me to come in?" he asked, glancing with a rather playful grimace toward the entrance gates to the petting zoo.

"'Es, Daddy. See ah bunnies."

The detective sighed. "All right... But only to see the bunnies," he warned with a raised brow.

Breathing an airy giggle, Hamish took a step forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. "Tank-su, Daddy," the little boy whispered delightfully into his father's collar. "'Kay, John." Backing up, Hamish once again took ahold of the doctor's hand, and resumed his excited bouncing.

"Right, then, here we go," John chuckled with a smirk.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, placing his hands in his coat pockets.

Led by his very eager little flat mate, John hurried into the children's petting zoo, followed closely by a grumbling Sherlock.

There was a small gasp. "Bunnies! Can go?"

"Of course! Let's go!" Grinning at the pure joy reverberating through every fibre of Hamish's tiny being, John hurried over to a corner of the children's zoo where other young children were holding several rabbits.

"Would you like to hold one, bud?" John asked, taking one from a family that was leaving.

"Oh." Now faced with the reality of the animal so near, Hamish seemed rather frightened of the animal. "Uhh... No, John. I is good. 'Es. 'Kay. Can go now. Saw ah bunnies rabbit. 'Kay."

"You don't want to hold him?" John chuckled.

"Uhm... No?"

The doctor laughed aloud. "Here, how about I help you? Hmm?"

"... 'Kay," Hamish answered, though he still seemed rather weary.

"Good man."

Eventually, after much coaxing and being able to hold his father's hand, Hamish was holding the rabbit and found he was quite content with the situation.

 

 

 

 

After a quick break for a late lunch, and another return to the petting zoo (as Hamish had apparently decided that he really did like the bunnies), the trio were finally actually looking at the animals in the zoo.

"Now, that, Hamish, is a Bengal Tiger," Sherlock murmured, pointing towards the large animal that was currently sleeping in its enclosure. "And, despite common beliefs..."

John stood back and watched with a fond smile as Hamish listened intently to his father, clinging not only to the detective's jacket, but every bit of information Sherlock was relaying to him. The doctor felt he may never tire of watching the different facial expressions of his tiny flat mate, or the way his small eyebrows would raise just slightly whenever Sherlock would begin speaking. Chuckling to himself, John pulled out his camera and quickly took as many pictures of the situation as he could.

After managing to make it through the reptile house and the aquarium, the trio of flat mates headed into the penguin house, the busiest site so far. Even on Sherlock's hip, there were so many people that Hamish could barely see any of the penguins.

"Can't not see, Daddy," the little boy whispered worriedly, giving his father's shoulder a tap.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock answered, quite displeased, as he was wanting Hamish to be able to see as many animals as possible. "Well... Here." Moving carefully, Sherlock took Hamish in his arms, and in one swift, fluid movement, transferred the little boy onto his shoulders. "There. Can you see now, Hamish?" the detective asked. John smiled slightly at the way Sherlock's slender fingers kept Hamish secure.

"'Es, Daddy!" the little boy laughed, having never been up so high. "Is tall here! Must see lots, Daddy."

A smile quirked over the detective's lips. "Yes, I suppose," he chuckled, giving Hamish's knee a tender pat. "Right, then. Point to one and I'll tell you something about it."

 

 

 

 

"Can do Tank now, Daddy?" Hamish asked. The small boy was still situated atop his father's shoulders and had taken to playing with the detective's thick curls.

"John?"

"Of course we can. We've seen most everything, I think."

"Mmm. Right, then."

"Go on Tank now?" Hamish asked, a hand pausing in Sherlock's hair.

"Yes!" John laughed.

 

 

 

 

Once finally situated on the train (which just happened to be blue, sending Hamish into an even more excited state) Sherlock and John made sure the little boy was safely situated between the two of them.

And, despite the many different animals that could be seen on the train trip, it was soon discovered that Hamish only cared about the train whistle.

Both Sherlock and John couldn't help but take countless pictures of Hamish's heartwarmingly infectious smile, as each time the whistle would blow, the small boy's face would light up, his dark green eyes would grow greener, and his tiny hands would clap together in pure elation.

 

 

 

 

After a quick dinner at one of the zoo's restaurants (which mainly consisted of Hamish attempting argue with Sherlock about the detective's choices of food for him), the trio made their way back to the rental car.

Sighing in relief when he noticed that Hamish had all but lost his energy, Sherlock quickly strapped the little boy into his car seat, and started the drive back to the hotel.

"I told you he'd like it," John chuckled from the back seat.

"Mmm. I suppose the day wasn't... Unbearable."

Knowing it would go unseen, John smiled proudly to himself. "Well... If nothing else, at least we'll get to sleep in tomorrow."

"Well, that's an idea. As to whether or not it will actually happen..."

"Fingers crossed."

 

 

 

 

"Ohh... Come here, little one," Sherlock murmured as he pulled Hamish's sleeping form from the carseat. "Yes. He's out."

"Good, good. Let's hope he stays out for several more hours."

"Yes."

Once in the room, Sherlock carefully carried his son's sleeping form over to the bed and pulled back the covers. "Here we are, love," he whispered as he lowered Hamish onto the bed. A small smile graced the detective's lips as he brushed some stray curls out of the little boy's eyes. "So, then... Any hints as to what is planned tomorrow?" Sherlock asked as he pulled the covers up and pressed a kiss to Hamish's temple.

"Nope. None at all. You'll just have to wait."

Sherlock frowned. "... Fine." Raising a suspecting eyebrow, the detective turned and disappeared into the bathroom.

Chuckling after his flat mate, John turned to Hamish's sleeping form, and took one of the little boy's curled hands in his own. "Goodnight, little man. You did a good job today. Hope you enjoyed it... Mmm." After pressing a kiss of his own to Hamish's temple, the doctor crawled into bed, looking forward to the several hours of sleep he was expecting the next morning.

 

 

 

 

Once he was finished in the bathroom, Sherlock quickly changed out of his suit and into a pair of pajamas. Gently moving Hamish's sleeping form to the other side of the bed, the detective crawled in, making sure one more time that the little boy was covered enough so that he wouldn't get cold during the night. Satisfied, and with mind racing of the possible plans John could have in mind, Sherlock wrapped his slender hand around his son's tiny middle and—also quite worn out from the day—fell asleep.


	51. Swimming

Sherlock was awoken by two tiny hands pressing on his chest.

"Mmm," the detective grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut, as the light outside happened to be refracting just in his eyes.

"He'o, Daddy," Hamish whispered loudly, removing his hands from his father's torso.

"Hamish," Sherlock groaned, rolling onto his side, away from the little boy.

"Daddy! I is up," Hamish giggled, tapping his father's waist, as the detective's back was now facing him.

"You were supposed to sleep in!" Groaning childishly into the sheets, Sherlock grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his head.

Giggling to himself, and attempting to cover the sound with his hands, Hamish crawled over Sherlock's slender body, and carefully slotted himself under the covers, close to the detective. "He'o, Daddy," he whispered again, pressing his cheek against his father's bare chest.

"Mmm." Not bothering to respond verbally, Sherlock removed the pillow from his face and raised an eyebrow. "Why in God's name are you up so early?" he rumbled, brow still raised.

"I is up, Daddy," the little boy answered plainly, peeking up at the detective from where he was settled underneath the covers.

"Yes. I can see that. What on earth were you giggling about?"

Having been reminded, Hamish suddenly broke into a fit of giggles. "Look, Daddy," the little boy laughed, attempting to be quiet.

"Look at what?" Sherlock asked, amused.

Grinning, Hamish crawled out from under the covers, seating himself atop Sherlock's chest when the detective rolled onto his back. "John, Daddy," he giggled, now unable to control his bell-like—and rather contagious—laughs.

Quite confused, Sherlock spread his hand over his son's bare back, and glanced towards the direction of his flat mate's bed. "Ah," the detective sighed with an eyeroll. "And why exactly is that funny?"

Unable to answer, Hamish merely crawled back under the covers and settled his little self close to his father's side, wrapping several small fingers around the detective's forearm.

"He's wearing boxers," Sherlock continued in mild confusion, gesturing towards the sleeping doctor, who had fallen asleep in just boxers, and whose covers had slipped down just a bit to show them.

"Is funny, Daddy," Hamish laughed, attempting to catch his breath.

The detective rolled his eyes. "If you say so." Despite his not understanding why such a thing was so funny, Sherlock smiled and playfully ruffled his son's curls.

"Well... I suppose we can't really do much until John wakes up, can we?"

"No, Daddy," Hamish agreed with a firm nod of his head.

"Right... Well, we could —"

"Ice chippies?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, a small smile quirking over his lips. "You would like some ice chips?"

"'Es 'ease. Ah more, Daddy."

"Some more. All right. I can do that." After lifting Hamish out of the covers and setting him on the ground, Sherlock slowly slid out of bed. "Right, then. Come along." After quickly grabbing the ice bucket, the detective offered his hand, which Hamish eagerly took. Hand-in-hand, the two left the hotel room.

"What is be doing ah-day, Daddy?"

"I've not a clue in the slightest... Unfortunately."

"What, Daddy?"

"I don't know," Sherlock reiterated with a chuckle.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy. Will be fun?"

"For you? Probably. For me? Past experiences suggest not as much."

"Oh... Oh! Ice chippies!" Hamish cheered, as they had reached the ice vending machine.

"Yes, quite." Sherlock made to put the pot under the dispenser.

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"I can do?"

"Oh. Yes, of course." With a yawn, Sherlock set the ice pot down and then lifted Hamish onto his hip. "There we are. Now, just push the —"

"I knows, Daddy," the little boy giggled, as if such a thing should be obvious. "Did do at John ah-mess... Umm... Lester... Oh, uh..."

"Yesterday," Sherlock supplied with a chuckle.

"'Es! Ester-may!"

"Close enough."

The ice bucket now filled, Sherlock grabbed the pot and then placed Hamish back on the ground.

"Go back now, Daddy?" the little boy asked.

"Yes. Here." Having noticed the way his son was eyeing the ice bucket, Sherlock reached in and picked out a small one. "Here you are."

"Tank-su, Daddy," Hamish thanked, eagerly shoving the ice into his mouth.

"You're very welcome." Smiling, Sherlock took ahold of Hamish's hand, knowing his son would attempt to make his own way back to the hotel room.

Once back in the room, John was just waking. "Where did you two go?" the doctor asked groggily, sitting up.

"Gots ice chippies, John," Hamish answered proudly.

"Ah. Hmm." With a yawn, the doctor rubbed several fingers into his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Not late enough," Sherlock answered with a smirk.

"Ah. How unfortunate."

"Quite. Ah, ah, ah, no! Come here, Hamish." Realizing Hamish was attempting to open the doors that led to the balcony—whose gate slats looked just big enough for Hamish to fit through—Sherlock rushed over to the window and lifted his son's small form up, quickly pulling him away from the door handle. "Hamish, you can't do that." Releasing a breath, Sherlock placed Hamish on his bed and sat down next to his tiny—and clearly confused—form.

"Hamish, you cannot do that, little one," the detective started, brushing some of his son's curls away in an absent-minded gesture.

"Do what, Daddy?" Hamish asked, his already-small voice just barely a whisper. Though it was clear the little boy knew he had done something, it was also clear he did not know what.

"Open any doors without John's permission or my own."

"Oh. Why, Daddy?"

"Because you never know what may be on the other side. And I don't want you getting hurt, or taken, or… I just want you safe, alright?" Noticing that Hamish's tiny frown had deepened, Sherlock took a thin hand and gently cradled his son's face in his hand, urging the little boy to look at him.. "You're not in trouble," the detective rumbled softly, once he had caught Hamish's gaze, "I just want to make sure you understand why I got nervous when you opened the door. Should you have fallen through any of the slats, I… Do you understand?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"And you understand that I'm not upset with you?"

"'Es."

Steel-grey eyes gazing into his son's green ones, Sherlock smiled. "There's my boy," he whispered. Lips quirking at the corners when he saw Hamish's form relax, the detective leaned down and, after brushing away several of the little boy's curls on his forehead, pressed a kiss to the delicate skin there. "Are you all right?"

"'Es, Daddy. Is 'kay. Is be sorry for ah door," Hamish answered with a nod, leaning against Sherlock's chest.

"That's quite all right, love. You've nothing to be sorry for… You're just as perfect as can be." After squeezing his son's small body close, and giving the little boy a reassuring smile, the detective playfully hoisted Hamish over his shoulder, and toted him to the bathroom. "Right, then." Looking utterly serious, Sherlock set Hamish on the ground, and then knelt down so they were eye-to-eye. "All good?" he asked, raising a brow.

A tiny smile graced the little boy's small lips. "'Es, Daddy. All is be good," he giggled softly.

"Good. John!" Sherlock called, pulling the shirt off of a now-giggling Hamish.

"Yeah?"

"Plan for today?" the detective asked, winking playfully at Hamish, who was now completely naked, and attempting to crawl into the bath on his own.

Chuckling, and still in his pajamas, John padded over to the bathroom and leaned against the doorway. "Nope," he chuckled smugly.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned on the water.

"Mmm-hmm." With a smirk, John left, already hearing the sound of Hamish splashing in the water.

 

 

 

 

"Right, then," John sighed, tugging on his small flat mate's jeans. "A complimentary breakfast is being offered downstairs today. I say we try it, hmm?"

"'Es, John. I is be hungry," Hamish agreed, with an earnest nod of his head.

Smiling, John playfully chuffed his tiny flat mate under the chin. "Good man."

"John?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"What is be doing ah-day?"

Chuckling, John finished dressing his tiny flat mate, and then placed the little boy on his hip. "It's a surprise," he whispered with a wink.

"Oh. 'Kay, John," Hamish whispered, placing a tiny index finger against his lips. "'Prise."

Smiling at his precious flat mate, John nodded in agreement. "Right. Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" the detective hummed from where he was seated at the small desk provided in the room, countless files scattered across the expanse of wood.

"Coming?"

"What?"

"Are you coming? With us. To eat."

"'Es, Daddy. Come 'ease?"

Fingers stilling their writing, Sherlock turned, a hint of a smile crinkling the corners or his eyes. "Oh, I suppose I could spare a few moments," the detective sighed dramatically and with an eye roll.

"Good. Tank-su, Daddy," Hamish thanked with a smile. Now clearly content, the little boy settled into John's hold, and rested his head atop the doctor's shoulder.

"Grab the bag," John called as he exited the room, gesturing vaguely behind him.

"Got it."

 

 

 

 

"Daddy."

"Hmm?"

"Eat 'ease," Hamish declared, attempting to lean over far enough to offer a piece of sausage grasped tightly between two chubby fingers.

"No thank you, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled with an apologetic smile.

"Needs ah eat, Daddy. Eat 'tis."

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock reached over and took the tiny piece of sausage from his son's little fingers. "All right."

Hamish grinned. "Tank-su, Daddy," the little boy thanked with a giggle.

"Mmm."

"Hamish, bud, you need to eat your fruit."

The little boy frowned for a moment. "But is not sta'berries."

"Well, no, but grapes are just as good."

"Not I does 'tinks so, John."

"Well, what would you like instead?"

"Sta'berries, 'ease."

"Right, of course."

"Dear Lord. John, have you learned nothing?" Sherlock inputted suddenly, uncrossing his legs and scooting his chair closer to Hamish's. "Hamish, you must eat some fruit today. There are no strawberries available. So. If you can eat all of your grapes for me, I'll put syrup on your waffle... Deal?"

Contemplating, Hamish sunk a little further back into his chair and glanced between the fruit on his plate and his father's soft, yet expectant gaze. "Deal," he mumbled after a few moments.

"Very good." Crossing his legs, Sherlock moved several grapes onto his palm and offered his hand.

"Tank-su, Daddy." Apparently eager for the syrup, Hamish took several and shoved them into his mouth.

Pleased, Sherlock raised a brow at John, who merely rolled his eyes in response. "Well-played.

"M-hmm."

Once Hamish had successfully eaten all of fruit, Sherlock found a container of syrup, opened the package, and then drizzled the sticky substance over his son's waffle. "There. And thank you for eating your fruit."

"Wel'cmin, Daddy. Oh. Can help?"

"Of course." Finding a knife, Sherlock cut the syrup-drizzled waffle into several small, easily eatable pieces.

"Tank-su."

"You're very welcome."

 

 

 

 

"John?" Hamish asked, having finished his breakfast.

"Yeah?"

"I is icky, John," the little boy stated, frowning at his syrup-covered fingers.

"Oh. Yes you are," the doctor laughed. "Let's find a bathroom and get you cleaned up, hmm?"

"'Es 'ease. Is icky."

"Quite."

"Here, I'll get it," Sherlock offered, standing up and pulling Hamish out of his chair.

"Thanks."

"Right, then. Don't touch anything," the detective chuckled, nearly laughing aloud at the way his son was holding his hands out as far away from himself as possible.

"'Kay."

Toting the little boy to the nearest bathroom, Sherlock entered and sat Hamish on the counter. "Stay just there," he stated, gently patting the little boy on the leg.

"'Kay, Daddy."

After gathering several paper towels and wetting them down, Sherlock returned to Hamish, who was still holding his hands out in front of him. Chuckling, the detective took a single arm in hand and gently washed away the syrup, and then did the same for the other arm. When Hamish still held his arms out, Sherlock gently lowered them, one corner of his lips twitching at the corners.

"Oh. Tank-su, Daddy," the little boy giggled.

"Mmm. Now, then. Mouth closed."

"'Kay."

Once again, Sherlock nearly laughed aloud when Hamish not only closed his mouth, but puffed out his cheeks, as well. "Close enough." Disposing of the old paper towels, Sherlock grabbed a new one, wet it, and then slowly cleared the syrup from his son's cheeks.

Now clean, Hamish crawled into his father's arms, waiting patiently while the detective threw away the paper towels and gathered the nappy bag.

"Bathroom?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to one of the stalls.

Thinking, Hamish's eyes travelled upwards and then back down again. "No, Daddy. Not does have ah potty."

"Excellent. Then up we go... To face whatever frighteningly domestic activity John has planned for us today."

"Will be fun, Daddy," Hamish reassured with a positively precious pat of reassurance to his father's cheek.

"Perhaps," Sherlock murmured, having reached the elevator. "Thank goodness for you, Hamish. You're the only redeeming part of this whole trip."

Not fully understanding, but concluding whatever his father had said was kind, the little boy merely smiled and rested his head on the detective's shoulder, burying a tiny hand in Sherlock's raven curls. "Tank-su, Daddy," he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Oh... You're very welcome, Hamish." Smiling, Sherlock pressed a kiss to Hamish's temple using the corner of his lips and then entered the elevator, pressing the up button. "Good luck to us both."

 

 

 

 

"John?" Hamish asked, looking at the doctor as if he had literally lost any sane part of his mind. "What is?"

"These," the doctor declared with a smile, "are swim trunks!"

"Oh." Frowning at the fabric, Hamish merely rolled some of the brightly-colored cloth between his fingers. "Can sit now?"

"Yeah, sure, of course."

Still frowning, though in a way that was more of concentration than upset, Hamish plopped himself down on the doctor's bed and began to carefully examine the multi-coloured fabric. "Has fishies," he whispered, still engrossed.

"Yes, I know. They're to go swimming in!"

"Unbelievable."

"Ignore your father. Swimming is fun."

"A swim park," Sherlock muttered into the hand covering his mouth. "And I thought the zoo was bad."

"Oh, shut up! You enjoyed the zoo."

"Trivial."

"Has fishies," Hamish repeated once again, completely oblivious to his father, and still not understanding the purpose of the unusual shorts at all.

"Yes," John laughed, amused by the complete seriousness of his tiny flat mate's examinations.

"I'm not swimming," Sherlock stated, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock!"

"I will watch," the detective compromised.

"Not will go, Daddy?" Hamish asked, releasing the swim trunks from his grasp.

"I will go. I'm just not going to swim."

Rolling his eyes, John grabbed the swim bag. "I've packed a pair for you just in case."

"John is?"

"I am swimming, yes. See?" With a kind smile, the doctor gestured to his own navy blue swim trunks.

"Oh, 'kay. Good."

John smiled. "Shall we head out, then?"

"'Es, John... I still not does 'stand."

"I know. That's okay, little man. You'll see."

"'Kay." With a tiny grunt of effort, Hamish slid off the bed and onto the ground. "'Eady."

"Excellent. Come on, Sherlock."

Grabbing his Belstaff, the detective squinted accusingly at his flat mate, before exiting the room.

"John?" Hamish asked as they were walking to the elevator.

"Hmm?"

"Why Daddy not does like?" the little boy asked, tapping his swim trunks.

"Because he's never been, so he just doesn't understand the fun."

"Oh." Bottom lip protruding slightly, Hamish glanced back at his father. "Is sad, John."

"Well... Yes, I suppose it is a bit," the doctor mused, pressing the down arrow.

The three boarded the elevator, with Hamish settled between John and Sherlock.

"Here, Daddy," the little boy whispered suddenly.

"Here, wha—" The detective quieted when he felt his son's tiny hand wrap around his own. "Oh. Thank you, Hamish."

"Wel'cmin, Daddy."

 

 

 

 

"Come on, Sherlock, it's just swimming! You look more ridiculous in your suit and coat than you would in a suit!"

"No. I've already told you. I am not swimming," the detective stated firmly, crossing his arms over his chest in a child-like manner.

"Fine," John grumbled. "Your son and I will go have fun and you can sit and sulk," the doctor finished with a glare, taking Hamish's hand in his own. With one last scowl towards his flat mate's indignant form, John turned, marching away in search of a chair. "Ignore your father, Hamish; he just doesn't know what fun is."

"'Kay, John," the little boy giggled.

John couldn't help but smile when he saw Hamish steal a glance back behind him.

"Is he following us?" John whispered loudly.

Daring a glance behind him in a way that was meant to be inconspicuous, but ended up being incredibly obvious, Hamish nodded and then whispered loudly, ""Es, John. Daddy is be follow."

Chuckling and with a smirk, John picked a chair and set the nappy bag and swim bag down.

No longer having the distraction of walking, Hamish quickly realized how many people there were around, and just how big the water park was. "Uhm, John?" he asked quietly, frowning at the largeness and height of the swim park.

"Just a minute, little man," John chuckled, absently patting his flat mate on the head, as he was too busy smirking at his flat mate's nearing form.

"Ridiculous," the detective muttered, straightening his suit.

"Yes, you are."

A huff. "I am not swimming. I find it—" Sherlock was cut off by Hamish bumping into his leg. "Oh. Hamish, what's the matter?"

"Up 'ease, Daddy," the little boy whispered, tugging at his father's trousers.

"Hamish. What's the matter?" Noticing how Hamish had settled himself between John's legs and his own, Sherlock reached down and pulled his son onto his suit-clad hip. "What's the problem, love?" he asked, wrapping a slender hand around his son's bare middle.

"Is lots big, Daddy," the little boy explained with a frown. Releasing a small breath, Hamish reached over and placed a hand on John's forearm. "Lots big," he repeated, now carefully situated between his father and John.

"Hey, it's okay little man," John reassured with a smile. "I'll be with you the whole time, okay?"

Hesitating, the little boy turned his attention to Sherlock, who nodded and gave the little boy's middle a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

"'Kay."

"Good man. Now..." With a smile, John carefully took Hamish from his flat mate's arms and then placed the little boy on his hip. "Ready?"

"'Es."

John smiled sadly when he noticed the way Hamish was gripping onto his collarbone and shoulder. "It's okay, bud," the doctor reassured, pulling up Hamish's tiny swim trunks. "It's only water. Sort of like a big bath."

"Bath'ime?"

"Yeah, sort of!"

"Oh."

Smiling when Hamish clearly seemed to calm, John began wading into the water.

"Bye, Daddy," Hamish called, leaning over John's shoulder to wave at his standing father. "Be back."

Gaze softening, Sherlock pulled a hand out of his pocket and waved back, pleased with the smile that soon after lit his son's features.

Now in about a foot of the pool water, John slowly lowered Hamish into the water. Though clearly curious, the little boy instantly huddled closer to John's legs.

"It's okay. Just water. See?" The doctor scooped up a handful of water and tossed it against Hamish's tiny chest. The little boy froze with a gasp. "John!" he laughed, a grin quickly spreading over his lips.

The doctor merely smiled in response. "Now. Go play," he instructed, feigning sternness.

"'Kay, John." Giggling to himself, Hamish began to run—though it looked more like hopping—through the shallow water, any and all trepidations now forgotten.

Pleased with himself, John followed behind his tiny flat mate, ready for action at any moment, and glanced toward Sherlock, a small half-smile on his lips. The detective—who still looked utterly ridiculous in his suit—was gazing lovingly at Hamish, legs crossed, fingers steepled under his chin.

The doctor had no time to make some sort of rude comment, however, as there was a very loud buzzer, signifying the wave pool was starting. Just as John was about to return to his insults, there came a very loud, "John!"

Instantly recognizing that if they had not come already, tears were on their way, John turned around and quickly found Hamish, his face already turning a lovely shade of red, and quite flustered, now that waves had already started. "Hey, hey, it's okay, Hame," the doctor said hurriedly, pulling a now-sobbing and wet Hamish into his arms.

"Not is," the little boy cried, wrapping his arms around John's neck and tucking his head under the doctor's chin.

John sighed when he heard his flat mate's distinctive voice. "Hamish!"

"Wants Daddy," Hamish sniffled, grip tightening.

"Okay," the doctor chuckled sadly. "Here we go."

Not bothering about his suit, Sherlock stepped to the edge of the water and waited for John to transfer a very unhappy Hamish into his arms.

Sniffling madly, the little boy pressed his wet form against his father's and turned just enough so he could scowl at the wave-filled water.

"What's the matter, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, paying no heed to his quickly-wetting suit. Taking a seat in one of the pool chairs once again, the detective began to gently pat his son's wet bottom. "Hmm, what is it?"

"Was loud an'—an' 'lmost fell ah'cos—'cos—" A sniffle.

"Because of the waves," Sherlock finished with a melancholy smile.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy cried, snuffling into his father's shoulder.

"Right..."

Knowing Hamish could not be reasoned with until he calmed down a bit, Sherlock gently rocked back and forth, running his fingertips through his son's curls. Once the little boy's cries had subsided into sniffles, Sherlock situated his son so he was no longer hidden under his jaw, but leaning against his chest. "Would you like to go back in, then?" he asked.

"Not does like ah water," Hamish replied.

"Well..." Pressing his eyes shut, Sherlock sucked in a breath, held it for a few moments, and then released it. "Would it make you feel better if both John and I swam with you?"

"Daddy an' John?" Hamish asked with a sniffle, green eyes wide.

"... Yes."

"Would help lots, Daddy," the little boy answered earnestly.

"Then that's what we'll do." Heaving a sigh, and shedding his coat, Sherlock stood, keeping his son in his arms. "Let's go get dressed."

"Seriously?" John asked, disbelieving.

"If it will make him happy, yes," Sherlock sighed, though he rather contradicted himself by pressing his lips to Hamish's flushed forehead.

"Oh. Well, great! That's great!" Now grinning, John rooted through the swim bag and pulled out the pair of black swim trunks he'd bought. "There you are."

Keeping Hamish held firmly against him with one arm, Sherlock took the black swim trunks from his flat mate with the other. "Coming?"

"No, I'll stay with the stuff."

"Right." Stroking several fingers up and down his son's bare back, Sherlock made his way to the bathroom, ignoring the many longing stares he was receiving from obviously-single women.

Once in a changing stall, the detective set Hamish's still-snuffling form on the ground. "I'm just going to change, all right?"

A sniffle. "'Kay, Daddy."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile when Hamish covered his tear-stained eyes and turned around. "Thank you, Hamish. That's very considerate of you," the detective thanked, quickly pulling off his pants and trousers and replacing them with the swim trunks. "Okay, love, I'm done; you can turn back now."

Dropping his hands, Hamish turned around, and—despite his tears—managed a small giggle upon seeing his father dressed in swim trunks on the bottom and suit on the top.

"Oh? Something funny?" Sherlock asked, feigning confusion.

"Does looks silly, Daddy," Hamish sniffled with a hint of a giggle, taking an arm and running it under his running nose.

"Mmm. Quite." Having changed, Sherlock folded and grabbed his shed suit and then, smiling warmly at his son, picked the little boy up and settled him against his now-bare chest. "Here. Let's go clean up a bit, hmm?" he asked, gently patting Hamish's also-bare stomach.

"'Kay." Nodding, Hamish tucked his head under Sherlock's chin and allowed the detective to run a wet paper towel over his face and back, and under his nose. "There. Better?"

"'Es, Daddy. 'Etter."

"Good. Now. Let's go swimming."

 

 

 

 

"Not a word, John," Sherlock muttered as he returned to the chair.

The doctor merely smirked in response.

Setting Hamish and his suit down, Sherlock took one of the little boy's hands, and gestured to John that he was to do the same.

Ignoring the many stares he knew they would be getting, John obeyed and took Hamish's free hand. "Ready?" he asked the little boy, giving the hand a squeeze.

"'Kay."

"Good man."

As there were no waves yet, Sherlock and John waded into the water, Hamish holding each of their hands.

"Still doing all right?" Sherlock asked.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good."

Soon after, the loud buzzer signaling the waves were starting echoed throughout the water park.

"Wants ah go back, Daddy," Hamish stated, attempting to scoot backwards.

"All right. Can we try something?" Sherlock asked, already stepping back.

"'Kay."

"Good." Ignoring everything telling him how much he didn't want to be doing this, Sherlock picked Hamish up and, after stepping back a few more steps, sat down in the shallow water, and placed Hamish between his legs.

"What is doing, Daddy?" the little boy asked, attempting still to back up.

"You're all right. Now, give me your hands, love."

"Oh... 'Kay?" Though confused, Hamish obeyed and, and placed each of his tiny hands his father's large ones.

Hamish whimpered sadly as a wave quickly drew near them, and attempted to back up, but rather fell on top of Sherlock's legs.

"It's okay. I've got you," the detective reassured, picking the little boy back up, and wrapping a hand around his tiny middle. "Ready?"

"No."

A chuckle. "Here it comes. Eyes closed." A smile twitched over Sherlock's lips when Hamish squeezed his eyes shut and puffed out his cheeks as the small wave hit them.

"Oh," the little boy sighed, releasing his breath once the wave passed.

Sherlock laughed aloud when the little boy turned back to look at him, eyes wide and a tiny smile gracing his lips.

"Not was bad, Daddy," Hamish sighed in amazement, squeezing his eyes shut again as a another small wave hit them.

"I told you it wouldn't be," Sherlock chuckled, releasing his son's hands.

"No, Daddy!" Though seeming to enjoy the waves more, Hamish grabbed his father's hands once again. "Stay."

"All right."

Now he was being firmly held in place by his father, Hamish seemed to be quite clearly delighted with the waves, and even allowed the next one to knock him over, and against his father's chest.

"Tiny bit fun," the little boy admitted sheepishly, standing up in preparation for the next wave.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock laughed, smiling when his son settled himself on top of his legs.

"Come, John! Is lots fun!" Hamish laughed, sliding his fingers out of his father's and attempting to catch the next wave with his tiny hands.

Smirking, Sherlock wrapped his slender hands around his son's middle and glanced at his flat mate. "Yes, John. Come along, sit."

Rolling his eyes and ignoring the stares they were receiving, John obeyed and sat next to his flat mates in the water, allowing his legs to float.

The two adults eventually melted into peace as they watched Hamish—now completely joyful—attempt to catch each of the waves with his tiny hands, only to be knocked back into the water, which seemed to delight him even more.

 

 

 

 

"He'o, Daddy!" Hamish called, returning from the Lazy River with John, settled safely in the doctor's arms.

Smiling, Sherlock left his seat, glad to remove himself from the steadily-growing crowd of women that had been attempting to inconspicuously gather close by, and waded into the water. "Did you have a good time?" he asked, taking the little boy from his flat mate's arms.

"'Es! Lots was fun, Daddy! Does want ah go?"

"No, that's all right. Thank you, though," Sherlock chuckled, pressing a peck to Hamish's temple.

"Is 'kay, Daddy," the little boy reassured, returning the kiss by placing his lips against the tip of his father's nose.

Eventually, Hamish had decided he wanted to have a go at the small slides located in the Kiddy Pool. Desperate to do anything to escape the growing female attention, Sherlock gladly agreed to help with the process.

"Right, then," John stated with a grin at the stop of a small slide, keeping Hamish situated by holding him under the armpits. "Ready?"

"'Es, John!" the little boy laughed, waving to his father, who was situated at the bottom of the slide, ready to catch him. "He'o, Daddy!"

"Hello, Hamish," the detective laughed in response, returning the wave.

"Okay. One. Two. Three." Laughing fondly, John set the little boy on the slide and gave him a gentle push.

Laughing, Hamish squealed the entire short trip down the slide, reaching his arms out towards his waiting father at the bottom.

"Annnnd... Got you!" Sherlock laughed, catching Hamish and lifting him up in the air. "Yes, I did! I got you!" the detective continued, pressing several kisses to his son's jaw and nose and cheeks.

"Daddy!" Hamish squealed once the kisses were done, wrapping his arms around the detective's neck. "Can do again?"

"Of course," Sherlock chuckled, hugging his son's small body close, as he found he was rather enjoying the skin-to-skin contact. "Just head back up to John."

"'Kay."

Smiling fondly, and finding he was not actually regretting putting on the swim trunks, Sherlock waited for John to send Hamish down the small slide again, ready to catch the little boy at the bottom.

 

 

 

 

After growing tired of the slides and a quick break for dinner, Hamish had decided he wished to spend the rest of the time at the wave pool.

"I told you he'd like it... In addition to everything else I told you he'd like."

"All right... Perhaps the holiday was not a horrible idea... I can downgrade it to awful."

A scoff. "Admit it. You've enjoyed yourself more than you thought... If for no other reason than because Hamish is having a good time."

"Mmm. Perhaps," Sherlock murmured, tilting his head as he watched Hamish hopping into the small waves.

"Exactly."

 

 

 

 

"You're not tired at all?" Sherlock asked incredulously to Hamish, who was situated between his legs, eyes drooping shut with each gentle wave.

"Not is, Daddy."

"Hmm... I can see that," Sherlock chuckled standing out of the water, and pulling Hamish's wet and tired form with him. "Let's head up," he mouthed to John, who nodded fondly in response and took his tiny flat mate into his arms.

"You get the bags."

"Yeah."

"He'o, John," Hamish whispered, wrapping his arms around the doctor's neck.

"Hey, little man. I'm proud of you. You did a great job today," John murmured against the little boy's skin.

"Mmm... Tank-su, John."

"You're welcome, bud."

 

 

 

 

"Should we put pajamas on him?" John whispered, lowering Hamish's now-asleep form on his bed.

"No, just change him out of his swim trunks and the water nappy."

"Right." Having gotten his tiny flat mate changed, John picked his small form up and placed him under the covers in Sherlock's bed. "He had a good time tonight."

"Yes, I think he did. Thank you," the detective murmured, crawling into the other side of the bed.

"You're welcome. Though your brother deserves some thanks, as well," John chuckled, crawling into his own bed.

"Mmm... No." And with that, the detective wrapped a hand around Hamish's sleeping form to ensure he would not fall off the bed, and switched off the lights.

John couldn't help but smile to himself when he heard Sherlock press a kiss to Hamish's cheek. "You big softie."

"Oh, shut up."

"D... Daddy?"

"... Way to go."

"What is be doing—" A yawn. "—Daddy?"

"Nothing, love. Goodnight."

"'Kay, Daddy... Be nice ah John."

"Oh, always."

"Mmm-hmm... Mmm."

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured once again, brushing a stray curl out of the little boy's eyes. "I love you... And not a word, John."

The doctor merely smiled.


	52. A Playdate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So sorry for the wait! I know I thank you guys a lot, but I'm going to thank you again, anyway. You all are awesome and I truly do appreciate each and every one of you! =) Thanks so much, guys! Hope you all are having a great summer!
> 
> (Please excuse the errors, per the norm!)
> 
> Also, I would greatly appreciate some ideas for chapters people would like to see written. Thanks!

"Thank God!" Sherlock gasped dramatically, collapsing atop his bed, equally dramatic. 

"Please, Sherlock. It was a few days," John scolded with a raised brow, though he kept his voice low, seeing as Hamish was sound asleep in his arms.

"Perhaps, but such a statement is irrelevant, seeing as it felt like so much longer," the detective muttered into the sheets. 

An eyeroll. "I'm putting him to bed."

"Mmm." Fingers curling against his long-missed bed, Sherlock took one deep breath in and then stood, smoothing a hand over the front of his suit. "I'll come."

"Thought so." A smug smile on his lips, John turned and began to tote his tiny flat mate up the stairs to his room, followed closely by Sherlock. "For the record, your son seemed to have had a great time." The doctor could practically see the smile in friend's voice.

"I suppose that... possibly... added some worth to the trip," the detective admitted with an eyeroll. 

"Uh-huh." Smirking, John treaded over to Hamish's bed and very gently set the small boy under the covers, pleased when he remained sleeping. "There you go, little man," he murmured, placing his hand atop Hamish's head and using his thumb to brush away some stray curls. "Sleep tight, bud." The doctor backed away, corners of his lips curled upwards into a warm smile. "Right, then. I'm off to bed. See you both tomorrow." Yawning, John padded past his flat mate, clapping the detective on the shoulder as he went, and then descended the stairs. 

Blinking his attention away from the entryway his flat mate had just exited through, Sherlock turned his ever-changing eyes to his son's sleeping form. "Oh, Hamish," he murmured, taking a seat on the edge of the little boy's tiny bed. "I do hope you had a good time, love." 

Humming in his sleep, Hamish whined a tad while he stretched his small arms and legs, shifting underneath his covers. The little boy eventually settled on his side, an arm draped over his face.

With a chuckle, Sherlock managed to kiss between his son's hand and press his lips to Hamish's cheek. "Goodnight, Hamish. I, too, hope you sleep well. Mmm." Smiling, the detective brushed the pad of his thumb over Hamish's cheek, and then pecked his lips one more time to the small boy's cheek. "Right, then." Once concurring that his son was tucked in properly enough, Sherlock padded downstairs to find John was in the kitchen, preparing a glass of water. "I thought you were going to bed," the detective mumbled with a raised brow, stifling a yawn. 

"I was. Just thought I'd make a side stop for a drink. How about you?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you popping off to bed, too?"

"Oh. Yes. Unfortunately, even someone like me requires such trivial neccessitites as sleep... And food, on occasion."

John withheld an eyeroll. "Welcome to the world the rest of us live in," he mumbled, turning, glass in hand. 

"... I don't understand."

Pausing, John couldn't help but chuckle. That's quite all right. Probably best you don't, anyway. Oh. By the way..." The doctor turned back to face his friend. "Now you don't have to make any decisions tonight, but I just think you should start thinking about getting Hamish into some kind of daycare."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. "What for?"

"For social reasons, Sherlock. He needs to be interacting with other children his age to help develope those skills." Sherlock tried to say something. "No. Shush. Now I said no decisions needed to be made today, I just wanted to make sure you're thinking about it, all right?"

Sherlock merely nodded.

"Right, then. Goodnight, Sherlock." 

Frowning slightly, Sherlock watched as his flat mate exited the kitchen and began to pad down the stairs to his room. 

"Mmm." A tired hum resonating deep in his chest, Sherlock placed a hand on the nearest counter, glancing around at his long-missed kitchen. A small smile graced the detective's lips. "Right, then." Yawning, Sherlock shed his coat, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair, and then padded into his own room, not bothering to change out of his suit.

After collapsing atop his bed and curling under and around the sheets, Sherlock managed to discard his suit jacket. Inhaling deeply, a tired smile ghosted over the detective's lips, pleased to be home and done with the holiday. With a pleased exhale of breath, Sherlock fell asleep, wrapped once again in the familiarities of 221B.

 

 

Sherlock was awoken by a tiny form clambering onto his bed, and then settling against the curve of his back. "Mm. Good morning, Hamish," the detective murmured, keeping his eyes closed.

"Morn', Daddy."

Sherlock could tell from the tones in his son's small voice that he was barely awake. "Tired?"

"What, Daddy? Oh. 'Es."

"Have you eaten?"

"Uh-hum..." 

The detective could feel Hamish nod against his spine. "Good, good." Yawning, Sherlock rolled over. "What did you eat, then?" he asked, tilting his son's head so he could see his face. 

"Oh, uhm... Toast an' sta'berries," the little boy concluded with a tired nod.

"Ah, lovely. Is John still here?"

"Hmm. Oh. Uhm, what, Daddy?"

"Is John still here?" Sherlock repeated with a fond chuckle.

"Oh. No, Daddy." 

"Work?"

"'Es." A sigh. "I is tired, Daddy," Hamish stated, as if confused. 

"Yes, I can see that," Sherlock laughed, giving his son a playful pat on the bottom. "We arrived home quite lat last night, and—per the usual—you never really sleep in very late."

"Mmm." Eyes quickly sliding shut, Hamish snuggled against his father's stomach, yawning into the fabric there.

With a smile and a chuckle, Sherlock playfully ruffled hamish's auburn curls, humming an apology when the little boy's eyes fluttered open. "Sorry, love."

"Is 'kay, Daddy," Hamish yawned. "I needs ah get up?"

"Well... we've just gotten back from holiday... I suppose we could rest just a tad longer."

"Uh-hmm..." Quite clearly concurring, Hamish's eyes slid shut once again and he wrapped a small hand around Sherlock's, falling asleep once again.

A fond smile dancing over his lips, Sherlock curled an arm around the back of his son's smaller form, tucking him close. Quickly following suit, the detective closed his eyes and released a breath. 

 

 

 

John returned to the flat for his lunch break to find it silent. Knowing Hamish was practically asleep when he had fed him earlier that morning, the doctor crept into Sherlock's bedroom, frowning when he found it empty. "Sherlock?" he called, returning to the kitchen. 

"We're in the sitting room," soon came the detective's deep voice. 

"Oh." Unusual for it to be so quiet when both Hamish and his father were awake, John entered the sitting room, expecting the worst. "Oh. What on earth are you doing?" he chuckled confusedly upon seeing Sherlock seated on the floor, fingers pressed to his lips, staring intently at Hamish, who seemed to be reading through a book. 

"Shush," the detective murmured quickly, waving several unamused fingers towards the doctor, before returning them to his lips.

"Right." Smiling, though somewhat confusedly, John crouched down next to his friend, squinting at Hamish in an attempt to see what his flat mate was seeing. "What are we looking for?" he whispered.

"We're sorting through all of our toys and books to see which we should keep and which we should get rid of," Sherlock explained quietly, gaze intent as he stared at his son. 

"Ah, right, right. And how long have we been doing this exactly?"

The detective glanced at his wristwatch. "Approximately twenty-two minutes." 

"All right... And how many toys are we getting rid of so far?" 

"Just the two." Allowing his hands to slide so they were positioned under his chin, Sherlock nodded towards a pile to his left consisting of one book and a puzzle. 

"Ah, okay... Okay... Is this all you've got planned for the day?"

"No, no, later we've a plan to go to the park, now the weather's beginning to get nice once again."

"Park, Daddy?" Perking up, Hamish abandoned the book he had been flipping through and toddled over to John and the detective. "Go now, Daddy?" he asked, crawling into his father's lap. "He'o, John! We is be going to ah park ahday. Does want ah come?" 

"I would love to, bud, but I'm afraid I have to go back to work," John chuckled sadly. "Sorry, little man."

"Oh. Is be 'kay, John. I is sorry has ah work," the little boy murmured earnestly. Pressing his small lips together, Hamish smiled and leaned over, gently patting the doctor's knee. "We will say lots stories."

"Excellent. I can't wait to hear them," John laughed, pressing a kiss to his tiny flat mate's cheek before standing.

"'Kay, John." 

"So, then. Have you two eaten, then?"

"Yes, we—"

"Not Daddy," Hamish interrupted, as if to scold his father.

"Well that's hardly surprising, is it?"

"Not is, John," the little boy agreed with a giggle. 

"Yes, well... So long as you're fed."

"Yes, John, we've both been fed," Sherlock chuckled as he stood, taking Hamish with him. "I am capalbe of feeding him."

"I know, I know." Raising his hands in false surrender, John turned with a chuckle and sauntered into the kitchen, in search of food. 

"Right, then..." Swaying back and forth, Sherlock absentmindedly patted his son's back. "So," the detective began, raising his brows, "to the park, then?"

"'Es!" the little boy declared, raising his arms.

"Excellent. Now, it's a tad bit cold today, so we're going to need to get you a jacket, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy." 

"Good. Oh, um... Any clue as to where it is?" he asked with a quirk of his lips.

"Oh... John?"

"Excellent idea." 

Nearly ten minutes later, Sherlock was gazing down at Hamish over a pram that had barely been used, settled between the two of them. The little boy sat with his arms crossed, pouting just slightly. "So no pram?" Sherlock asked for nearly the fourth time, raising a skeptical brow.

"No, Daddy." 

"Sure?"

"'Es."

"... Fine. But I am not carrying you." 

 

 

 

Once reaching the park, Hamish had managed to find his way into his father's arms, and seemed quite content at having done so. 

"I hope you're pleased," Sherlock mumbled, setting the little boy down on the ground once again. 

"'Es, Daddy."

"Oh, well that's good." Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned his attention to park, wanting to gauge the activity and crowd. The detective's eyes instantly traveled to a familiar form. Jess, the young, single mother and Ava, whom they'd met at one of their first trips to the park, was seated at a nearby park bench. Having become quite closely acquainted with her, and found he was actually not as annoyed by her as he thought he would have been, Sherlock had discovered Jess was a very interesting individual, one whom was not entirely unpleasant to associate with. And Hamish had developed quite a close relationship with Ava, despite the age gap. Sherlock could soon tell, however, that Jess was clearly going through a stressful situation. "Hamish," he murmured, kneeling down next to the little boy. "Who's that over there?" he asked, gesturing to Ava's form, running nearby. 

A gasp. "Ava!" Hamish called, a joyous smile dancing over his lips. "Go, Daddy," the little boy practically squealed, toddling over to Ava.

Making sure he kept a watchful eye on his son's toddling form, Sherlock made his way over to the bench he and Jess usually shared and sat down next to her, slowly crossing his legs.

"Oh," Jess gasped, still unused to the silence with which Sherlock moved. "Hello, Sherlock," she greeted, a smile lightening her features. 

"Good afternoon, Jessica," Sherlock replied, having learned that her real name was not Jess, but rather Jessica. 

"Hello, Hamish," she called with a wave towards the two playing children. The young mother couldn't help but smile when the little boy yelled some unintelligible response back. "He's doing lovely, Sherlock."

"Mmm. As Ava appears to be, as well." 

"Yeah, she's... Quite the handful now," Jessica chuckled with a little less enthusiasm than usual.

Sherlock watched as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "So, then," he murmured, pulling off his gloves. "Your mother's back in the hospital, then, is she?" he asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

Jessica's lips pressed together. "Yeah, she's... getting worse."

"I'm... sorry," Sherlock murmured, still not entirely clear on proper social etiquette for such situations. 

"Thanks, Sherlock. I just... I've finally got a job, but I've barely got enough money to send Ava to her daycare, so she only goes a few days a week, and I, you know, fear that she may not last very long. Ava doesn't need to see that. But, unfortunately, I've got nowhere for her to go tonight, and I just... Some days I want to crawl into myself and make all the difficulties of every day life go away, you know?" Jess sighed, running several fingers through her hair.

"No," Sherlock answered.

"Sorry?"

"No, I don't know what it feels like to want to crawl into myself. Sounds terribly unpleasant, anyway," the detective continued, frowning slightly. He nearly jumped when Jessica laughed aloud, the bubbly personality he'd been used to seeing quickly rising to the surface once again. 

"Thanks, Sherlock," she chuckled with a smile. "Now I've just got to figure out what I'm doing with Ava..." 

"Well, I'm sure you'll—" Sherlock paused mid-sentence, a thought suddenly occurring. The conversation he'd had with John just the night before quickly replayed in the detective's mind. And he soon had a solution to both his and Jessica's problems. "Jessica," he stated, turning towards her, "I would be more than willing to sort of... babysit her for a little while, if you would feel comfortable."

"Are... Seriously? Oh, my... Sherlock, that would be positively wonderful! Are you sure? I mean—I just—Sherlock, thank you so very much!" Nearly squealing in relief, Jessica quickly leaned forward, pressing her lips to Sherlock's cheek, in a quick, thankful peck. "Thank you. Thank you!" 

Rather quite shocked from the quick and sudden kiss, Sherlock merely blinked at the young mother, not a clue as to what the proper reaction to such a thing would be. "Of course," he managed eventually. 

"Right, then. We live just a few blocks from here, so I suppose it would be easiest for me to run home quickly and pack a bag for you. You're still sure?" 

"Yes, sure, of course," Sherlock answered quickly, always finding he could get rather overwhelmed with Jessica's quick, non-stop speech patterns. 

"Great! Thank you so much! All right. I'll be back in just a moment. You can watch the two of them?"

Sherlock merely nodded and managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. 

"Excellent. Be back!" Grabbing the bag she had set next to her on the bench, Jessica hurried towards her daughter, explaining something to the little girl before hurrying away and out of the park. 

Sherlock waited patiently, watching Hamish fondly as the little boy interacted and played with Ava. The detective knew he would never tire of hearing his son's bell-like, and rather contagious laugh. A tender smile ghosted over Sherlock's lips as Hamish toddled over to Ava, who had just fallen, and attempted to help her up. The detective could hear the little boy ask her worriedly, "Is be 'kay, Ava?" 

"Yep! All good!" the little girl replied with a grin, brushing the dirt off her knees as she stood. 

"Oh. Good!" Relief clearly flooding his tiny form, Hamish toddled over to the swing set and then turned, grinning when he found his father's seated form. "Daddy?" he called, tiny voice just barely reaching the detective.

"Coming, love," Sherlock called back. Tucking his gloves into his pocket, the detective left his seat at the bench and hurried over to his son's waiting form. 

"He'o, Daddy."

A laugh. "Hello, love." 

"He'o. I can do ah swingies?"

"Yes, of course." Smiling, Sherlock leaned down and gathered Hamish into his arms, transferring him to the swing. "Ava?" Knowing he was supposed to be watching her, too, the detective turned and found she was standing behind him, now looking rather feeble. "Oh. Hello, there," Sherlock greeted, attempting to sound friendly. Despite the reassurance he'd received from John that his treatment of Hamish was normal and loving, the detective never quite knew how to react around other children. "Would you like to swing?" he offered, suddenly realizing the small girl may feel left out.

"Yes, please. 'Tank you, Mr. Holmes," Ava thanked with a small voice.

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"I prefer to be called Sherlock," the detective explained, gesturing to a swing next to Hamish. "Do you need any help?" 

"Sometimes mummy helps me."

"Oh. Well..." Sherlock waited patiently while Ava moved over to a swing, placing a hand atop Hamish's back while he waited. "Good?" 

With a grunt of effort, the little girl hoisted herself onto a swing and then settled in, taking ahold of the chains on either side. "Yes, Mr.—Oh. Sherlock," she corrected with a giggle. 

"Quite. Do you need a push?" the detective asked, having already started pushing Hamish, who was laughing and squealing contently to himself. 

"Nope. I can do it. 'Tank you."

Sherlock's lips twitched at the corner. "All right."

"More, Daddy," Hamish laughed, raising his tiny arms into the air as he swung rhythmically back and forth. 

"All right, all right." Chuckling deeply, Sherlock gave his son another push. "Doing well, Ava?" he asked, turning to the little girl.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Sure?"

"Yep!" the little girl reassured with a smile, giving herself a small push. 

"Very well. How are we doing then, love?"

"Lots be good, Daddy. He'o Ava!" Hamish squealed as he swung past. The little gil giggled contently in response.

"Oh. Ava, your mother's back. Come here, little one." After stopping Hamish's swing with his hand, Sherlock gently pulled the little boy from the plastic seat and settled him against the curve of his waist. "Ava, your—"

"Mummy!" Abandoning the swingset, Ava quickly toddled towards her mother, nearly tripping over her own feet in her hurry.

"Oh, hello there, dear," Jessica greeted with a hug. 

"Did you get every'ting, Mummy?"

"Uh, yes. I hope so, at least."

"He'o Jess'ca!" Hamish greeted cheerfully from his perch on his father's hip.

"Hello, Hamish," the young mother chuckled fondly, passing the bag she'd prepared to Sherlock, who silently thanked her.

Once done with exchanging hugs and kisses, Ava was soon back to playing with Hamish, and Jessica was off to the hospital, having thanked Sherlock numerous more times. 

 

 

Once it seemed like Hamish and Ava had had their fill of playing, Sherlock left his seat at the bench and made his way over to the two children. "Right, then. Ready to head home, are we?" he asked.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy sighed, hurrying over to his father and huddling around his legs. "I is tireds. Can go home now?"

With a smile, Sherlock leaned down and pulled Hamish into his arms. "Very good, then. Besides, it's almost time for your nap, anyway."

"'Es. Ava has ah nappies?"

"Well, I... Don't really know. I suppose we'll find out." The detective turned when he felt a small tug on his trousers. 

"Mr. Holmes?" Ava asked, dropping her hand from the fabric of Sherlock's trousers. 

"Yes?"

"Mummy says I am go home with you," she stated with raised brows.

"Yes, that's right," Sherlock answered, grabby the bag Jessica had packed for the two of them. 

"Okay." With a nod of her head, the little girl turned her large eyes up towards the tall detective, waiting patiently.

"Right, then. Ready?" he asked, though the question was mostly directed at Ava, seeing as Hamish was begin to doze off against his shoulder.

"Okay."

"Good." Pressing Hamish close and setting a slender hand atop the little boy's back, Sherlock began the walk back to 221B. Soon, however, the detective felt a tiny hand wrap inside of his own. Coming to a halt on the pavement, Sherlock glanced down to find Ava had taken ahold of his fingers and was gazing up at him expectantly.

Clearly sensing the detective's confusion, the little girl began to giggle to herself. "Mummy says to hold hands always when we walks home."

"Ah," Sherlock sighed in understanding, hesitantly closing his fingers around Ava's smaller ones, despite their being just slightly larger than Hamish's and feeling foreign to his touch. "Right, then. On we go."

Hamish now slumbering on one shoulder, Jessica's bag draped over the other, and hand-in-hand with Ava, Sherlock could only imagine how domesticated he looked. The detective's thoughts were further confirmed by the fond smiles he was receiving from passersby. Sherlock couldn't help but breath a sigh of relief upon reaching the steps of 221B.

"Is this where you an' Hamish live?" Ava asked, gently tugging her hand from Sherlock's

"Yes. This is the flat we live in, along with John. Have you met John?"

The little girl thought for a few moments before shrugging with a small smile. Sherlock merely chuckled in response, as he pushed open the door, allowing Ava to take a hesitant step in, before following with careful steps, not wanting to wake Hamish. "Right, then," he sighed, once again taking hold of the little girl's hand as he led her up the stairs. "This is it. Umm... Right, Hamish needs to go down for his nap, and your mother didn't mention if you..." Sherlock trailed away when he turned to Ava to find her yawning and rubbing at her eyes with a first. "That answers that, then. Come along. This way," the detective chuckled, gently turning their tiny guest towards the stairs to Hamish's room. "Oh." Suddenly coming to that thought that both children would be requiring a sleeping space, the detective paused. "Right."

 

 

 

To: John Watson at 2:09 p.m.

EMERGENCY. FLAT. NOW. 

SH

 

 

Having heard his phone chime in such a way that meant he had received a text from his flat mate, John rolled his eyes and then glanced at his phone, expecting the detective was bored with his first day back, and was requiring a new case. "Oh, my... Jesus!" the doctor breathed upon seeing the message on his screen. Quickly grabbing his coat, John mumbled some sort of an explanation to a nearby nurse, and then hurried out of the hospital, in search of a cab. 

Once at the flat, John quickly bound up the stairs, taking them two at a time, panicking when he was met with silence. "Bloody hell... Sherlock!" he called worriedly. "Sherlock, what's happened—"

"Shush, John," soon came the detective's voice. "We're up here. And keep your voice down, please."

Heart thrumming rather painfully in his chest, John hurried up the stairs to Hamish's room. "What, what's the emergency," he breathed rapidly, glancing worriedly around the room in search of any danger. His whole form quite literally froze upon realizing there was not one tiny form in the room, but rather two. 

"Have you been running?" Sherlock asked, voice just a whisper, absentmindedly swaying Hamish, who was still asleep in his arms, back and forth.

"What... Who's that? Why are there two kids?" Once determining that the tiny form in his flat mate's arm was Hamish, John very confusedly turned his gaze to the form resting in the little boy's head. "Is that... Is that Ava? From the park?" he asked breathily.

"Yes, of course. Her mum's having some family troubles, so I volunteered to watch her for the—"

"So there's no emergency?" John asked in disbelief, hands clenching at his sides.

"Well, no of course there is. Don't you see it?"

"You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack, Sherlock!"

"Shh—"

"You can't just text me something like that when there's no emergency! I thought something had happened to you, or worse, to Hamish. Jesus, just..." Releasing a sigh, John ran several fingers through his short, sandy hair. "In the future, please don't text me about an emergency until there actually is one."

"Apologies. Now, then. What should we do about the problem?"

"What in the bloody hell is the problem, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, exasperated.

Rolling his eyes as if the answer was painfully obvious, Sherlock gestured to Hamish's bed, where Ava was currently slumbering. 

"It's a shame he's not awake to scold you for being so rude," John drawled, scowling at his flat mate.

"You scold me all the time."

"Sure, but you actually listen when he does it."

A fond smile twitched over Sherlock's lips. "I suppose," he murmured, pressing the sharp curve of his cheek atop the little boy's curls. 

"Either way, I still don't see the problem." 

"What do I do with the two of them?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, she rather fell atop Hamish's bed and just sort of dozed off, and I've got work to do, so where shall I put him?" The detective gestured to Hamish's sleeping form. 

"Just put tuck him in with Ava, they'll both be fine."

"What?" Sherlock looked practically appalled. 

"Sherlock," John chuckled in realization, "they're children. They'll be fine."

"Are you sure? I mean..."

"Sherlock." John smiled reassuringly at his friend. "They'll be fine. Was that the emergency?"

"Well, yes, but... You've not really solved it."

"Fine. If that bothers you, allow Ava to stay in here, and you can take Hamish downstairs with you and just let him have a rest on the couch while you work. This is really not a big deal, and definitely does not qualify as an emergency."

Sherlock frowned slightly. "Very well. Thank you. You can go back to work," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his fingers. 

Shaking his head, John chuckled and then glanced between the two slumbering children. "Should be an interesting evening, then."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement. "You're hardly one to complain, however, seeing as the situation is your fault."

"Oh? And how did you come to that conclusion, exactly?" 

"You were the one who brought up social interaction for Hamish. I saw an opportunity for social interaction. Now Ava is staying with us for the evening. Your fault." 

John merely pressed his lips together before mumbling, "Right," and heading back down the stairs.

Contemplating the situations John had given him, Sherlock glanced between his sleeping son and the tiny bed in front of him, before coming to the conclusion that he would just keep Hamish with him. "Right, yes, good." Quite unsure of what to do with Ava, the detective remembered that he should treat her much like he treats Hamish. With unsure movements, Sherlock padded over to the small bed and quickly draped the blankets over her, as if worried she may wake should he touch her for too long. "Yes, well... All right." When Ava did not wake, Sherlock concluded all was well and then turned, heading down the stairs, pressing soft kisses to Hamish's curls. 

"Here we go, love," the detective murmured once in the sitting room as he made to set the little boy on the couch. Not wanting him to get cold, however, Sherlock managed to find a blanket, and then draped it over his son's tiny form. "Have a good sleep, Hamish," he murmured, brushing several curls out of the little boy's eyes with the back of his knuckles before sauntering into the kitchen, eager to look at the samples Lestrade had left him.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock's working was soon disrupted by his son's tiny voice. 

"There is Ava in my's room," said little boy stated, impossibly confused. 

"Ah. Yes, there is," Sherlock chuckled, turning away from his microscope. "She's staying with us because her mummy's a tad busy. Is Ava awake?"

"Oh. I nots know." 

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh when he saw his son's still-waking form toddle out of view, followed closely by the sound of his tiny footfalls making their way up the stairs, and then return a short time later. "Well, then?" he asked once Hamish returned into view.

"Ava is be up, Daddy," the little boy concluded proudly and with a nod of his head.

"Excellent. We should probably go help her down the stairs, then, shouldn't we?" 

"'Es, Daddy. Is be nice." 

"Quite." Letting Hamish lead the way, Sherlock followed his son up the stairs to his room, where he found Ava waiting at the top of the landing, tugging at her fine, and now rather messy, brown hair. "Hello, Ava," Sherlock greeted, smiling fondly when he saw Hamish wave at the little girl out of the corner of his eyes. "Did you have a good rest, then?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock," the detective chuckled. 

"Hamish," the little boy inputted suddenly, quite confused when his father laughed aloud. 

"Right, then," Sherlock hummed, still chuckling. Glancing between the two still-waking children on the landing, the detective scooped Hamish into his arms and offered a hand to Ava. 

"'Tank you," the little girl thanked tiredly, grasping Sherlock's larger hand in her own and allowing the detective to lead her down the stairs.

"Well, what shall we do, then?" Sherlock asked once in the sitting room, releasing Ava from his grasp and setting Hamish on the ground.

"Oh! Oh! Ava, come, come see! I has lots toys," Hamish declared proudly, hurrying towards the little girl. Quite clearly excited to show his friend his treasures, Hamish tugged Ava towards the toy bin that had taken permanent residence in the sitting room and, after situating the little girl in just the right position, began to pull out all of his favorite toys. 

A single hand having found its way to his pocket, Sherlock watched the scene with a fond gaze, ever-changing eyes cataloguing each small interaction and smile and giggle between the two tiny children seated on the floor in front of him, creating an entirely new corridor in his mind palace for the information he was logging. 

Knowing the two children would be just fine, Sherlock silently returned to the kitchen, making sure the sliding doors were open, so as to keep a careful eye on Hamish and Ava. 

 

 

 

"Well, hello there, Ava!" John declared cheerfully as he made his way up the stairs, to find the little girl appeared to be running in circles around the flat, chased by Hamish.

Upon hearing the unfamiliar voice, Ava stopped mid-step, tripping over herself in the process. Not quite remembering the doctor from their few previous encounters, the little girl hurried back into the kitchen. "Sherlock!" she called with her tiny voice, huddling around the detective's legs. 

"Oh, no, no, Ava, it's all right. I'm John, remember? We've met at the park a few times," the doctor chuckled, gathering Hamish into his arms when the little boy ran up and hugged his leg with a delighted cry.

Upon seeing her friend react so calmly to the doctor, and hearing Sherlock's deep voice call a greeting, Ava took a hesitant step away from the detective's legs. "Hello," she stated quietly, still unsure of whether or not she trusted the doctor.

"Hello there, little one," John chuckled reassuringly. "I hear you're to be staying with us for the evening, hmm?" 

"'Es, John! Ava and I is be play lots!" Hamish explained cheerfully, wrapping his arms around the doctor's neck. 

"Oh, is that so?" Smiling, and hoping it would make Ava feel more at ease, John pressed a kiss to his tiny flat mate's cheek. "So you've had a good day, then?"

"'Es! Lot is be good, John."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear that!"

Coming to the conclusion that John was safe and kind enough for her to feel at ease, Ava's worry quickly melted away to reveal her bubbly personality. "Hamish," she giggled, quickly returning to the game they'd been playing.

"Oh! Down 'ease, John?"

The doctor quickly obeyed with a smile. "Of course. Go play, bud." 

"Tank-su!" 

Smiling after the two small children, John sauntered into the kitchen. "So, they've had a good day, then?"

"Quite. Or so it would seem. They both seem content and aptly entertained."

"Well, that's good. Dinner?"

"Not yet. I was rather hoping you could take care of it," Sherlock murmured, focusing intently on his slides.

"Of course." Chuckling, John drummed a few fingers on the kitchen table before pulling out his mobile. "I'll get takeaway, then."

"Mmm."

 

 

 

 

Once having eaten, both Hamish and Ava soon began to tire out, a day full of playing with each other beginning to wear down at their energy. Eventually, the two young children were seated on the floor next to each other, listening contently as Sherlock plucked out a soft melody on his violin, playing each note with careful precision.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed, a tiny smile gracing his lips as he watched his father's graceful fingers glide over and across the strings, light from the lit fireplace flickering over the equally-graceful instrument. Heaving himself up from the ground with a grunt, the little boy managed to crawl atop the couch and quickly settled himself against Sherlock's side, snuggling against his familiar form.

Continuing his gentle playing, Sherlock shared a fond smile with his flat mate when he noticed both Hamish and Ava's eyes beginning to droop, fluttering closed with each soft pluck of the violin strings. 

Hamish's eyes eventually slid closed when his father began to hum along with the melody he was playing, deep voice soothing and lulling him to sleep. Ava soon followed suit, lying down on the bed of pillows that had managed to find their way into the sitting room.

"Are they out?" John mouthed to his flat mate, setting the book he'd been reading down. 

"Quite," the detective mouthed back. pressing a soft kiss to his son's head before setting the violin down. 

"And now we wait."

"Mmm." 

 

 

 

Jessica returned several hours later. Allowing John to go make the proper and necessary greetings and condolences, Sherlock managed to gather Ava into his arms, deciding he would bring her down. The little girl shifted slightly once in his unfamiliar hold, but soon settled, allowing the detective to support her weight. 

After finding the little girl's bag, Sherlock slowly toted Ava down the stairs and transferred her into her mother's waiting arms. 

"Thank you again," Jessica thanked for the fourth time. "I truly appreciate it, you two." After more profuse thanking and then reassurances from John, the young mother and her slumbering daughter slipped away into the night. 

Once upstairs again, Sherlock carefully gathered Hamish into his arms and then carried the little boy up to his room, tucking him in. "Goodnight, Hamish," he murmured against his son's forehead, placing several soft pecks to the skin there. "You did wonderfully today love. Mmm. I love you." 

The little boy merely hummed softly in response.

 

 

"Daddy?" came Hamish's tiny voice. 

Eyes instantly leaving the specimens under his microscope, Sherlock quickly left his seat and hurried over to his son's little form. "What's the matter, Hamish?" he asked, noticing that the little boy was barely awake.

"I... I hads a bad dreamies," Hamish mumbled, bumping his head against his father's jaw in an attempt to get close, while simultaneously hugging the stuffed animal clutched between his tiny fingers close.

"Ah, I see," Sherlock murmured, guiding his son's head so he was resting atop his shoulder. "Well, let's see if we can't help that, hmm?" Grabbing a blanket from the sitting room, Sherlock slowly meandered upstairs, swaying back and forth as he went in an attempt to get Hamish back to sleep. "Here we go," he murmured, trying the set the little boy back in his bed.

"No, Daddy," Hamish protested, exhausted tears beginning to form. "I wants ah stay," the little boy began to cry, still barely awake.

Concluding that one night would not do much damage to his son's routine or sleep pattern, Sherlock lifted Hamish back into his arms and draped the blanket he'd grabbed around the little boy's body. 

Clutching his stuffed animal, Hamish quickly snuggled against his father's chest, seeking the detective's reassuring hold.

"There now. You're all right. It was just a bad dream, love," Sherlock murmured, taking a seat in the rocking chair behind the bed. "You're all right..." 

"Was... Was ah bads... Dreamies, Da'ey," Hamish mumbled into Sherlock's chest, pausing with each gentle rock of the chair.

"I know. They're no fun, are they?"

"No... Nots is..."

"I know... I know they're not." Adjusting the blanket he'd draped over Hamish, Sherlock tucked his son's head under his chin as he continued to rock, stroking several fingers up and down the little boy's back. "It was just a dream, love."

"'Es... Dreamies..."

"Mmm. Exactly."

As if feeling the vibrations of his father's deep, resonating voice, Hamish hummed to himself and, with a sniffle and an exhale of breath quickly fell asleep once again, a single hand grasping his father's shirt.

Wanting to make sure Hamish had actually fallen asleep, and not minding the contact, Sherlock silently rocked for a few more minutes, keeping Hamish tucked and snuggled close.

The detective suddenly realized this was the first time Hamish had fallen asleep on his chest since he was younger, and had not yet acquired his own room. A strange pang seemed to dance through the detective's chest at the thought.

Well... perhaps just a few more minutes wouldn't do any harm, either.


	53. A Day With Mycroft

"John! John!" Sherlock called excitedly as he ran up the stairs, a file clutched in his fingers. "We have a case, John!" Practically bouncing up and down, the detective scooped Hamish up into his arms and pressed several delighted pecks to his temple. 

"Oh. He'o, Daddy," the little boy greeted rather confusedly. "Has ah case?"

"Yes, love! Yes, we do. And it looks positively incredible." Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at the way Hamish was scowling at him, having been so suddenly plucked from the game he was obviously playing with John. "Apologies, Hamish." After pressing another kiss to his son's temple, the detective set the little boy back on the ground and knelt down next to him, having kept a hand on his small back. "What have you two been doing while I was gone, hmm?" he asked, rubbing several circles up an down Hamish's back.

"John an' I dids ah puzz'mel, Daddy," the little boy declared proudly. 

"Ah, how fun!"

"'Es! An' we hads a snack."

"Excellent." 

"So, then," John sighed, standing. "We've a case, then?"

"Yes! A positively intriguing one, by the looks of it." An eyeroll. "Hardly surprising Lestrade couldn't figure it out."

"What does means, Daddy?"

"What? Oh. Um, nothing, love," Sherlock chuckled with an apologetic quirk of his lips. "Here, have a look." The detective handed the case file to his flat mate and then squatted down next to his osn. "Try that one," he hinted with a smile, pointing to the piece he knew the little boy was looking for. "Hamish?"

"'Es, Daddy?"

"John and I are both going to have to work on this case today, so—" 

"Stays with Nana?" the little boy asked, deserting his puzzle so he could gaze up at his father.

"Yes, I'm afraid so, love."

"Oh. Is 'kay, Daddy," Hamish reassured with a smile. "I likes Nana." 

"I know you do," Sherlock laughed. The detective playfully ruffled his son's curls, pleased when several giggles soon followed. "So you'll be all right, then?" he asked, never enjoying having to leave his son for a case.

"'Ep! I is be good, Daddy."

"Good." Smiling, Sherlock stood, taking Hamish with him. "Did you just say 'yep?'" he asked, quirking a brow as he began descending the stairs. 

"'Ep! John does say." The little boy suddenly giggled. "Does sound tiny bit silly," he laughed with a whisper, as if saying such a thing would somehow hurt the doctor's feelings.

"Mmm. I quite agree," Sherlock hummed with a smile. Having reached Mrs. Hudson's flat, the detective knocked on her front door, waiting to hear the tell-tale sounds of her shoes against the hardwood as she hurried to answer the door. Yet no such sound came. "Hmm. That's unusual," Sherlock mused aloud, frowning at the door. "Oh. Oh, no... She's out on holiday, isn't she?"

"'Es, Daddy. I 'tinks so." 

"Hmm... Molly?" A nod. "I quite agree."

 

 

 

 

 

"Sherlock, I can't. I'm working today."

"Molly, I have a pressing case that needs my tending to today," Sherlock practically begged as he walked about the flat, Hamish on his hip. 

"And I have several bodies on slabs that require my tending to today. I'm sorry, Sherlock." 

"... Fine. Apologies. Best of luck."

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"No good?" John asked. 

"No. We've tried everyone!" 

"Well... Not everyone," John murmured with a raised brow. 

"I don't understand." 

 

 

 

 

"No. No, absolutely not," Sherlock stated firmly, arms crossed over his chest.

"Sherlock, please," said detective's brother drawled with a roll of his eyes. "You are being quite ridiculous. Nothing unusual there, however, so I've not a clue as to why I'm surprised." 

"I do not trust you enough to tend him for a day." Mustering his best glare, Sherlock pointed with a slender finger to Hamish, who was settled on the couch next to him, having a sort of nap. 

"And why ever not?"

"Sherlock, be nice," John scolded with an exasperated sigh.

"Because," the detective continued, ignoring his flat mate, "you have no children of your own, and I seriously doubt you've done any babysitting recently, so are therefore not equipped to take care of Hamish for a day."

"I took care of you," Mycroft countered with an unamused eyebrow.

"Yes, well..." Gaze softening ever so slightly, Sherlock released a breath as his silver gaze slid to his resting son. "I suppose... You never killed me, or... or wounded me in any way," the detective mused aloud, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth as he watched Hamish's back rise and fall. "Ugh. Fine, fine," he muttered, throwing his arms up in the air in surrender. "But only because we have nobody else."

"Sherlock! There's no need to be so rude."

"Oh, please. He's Mycroft. I'm sure he's heard much worse." 

"Mmm. Quite. Besides, your opinion matters not. Hamish always seems to quite enjoy my visits," Mycroft sneered with a pleased smirk.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. Ignoring his brother, the detective turned and knelt down next to the couch Hamish was napping on. With gentle fingertips, Sherlock stroked several slender fingers through his son's hair, whispering in an attempt to wake him. "Hamish? Hamish, wake up for me, love."

"Mmm... Daddy? Oh. He'o," the little boy mumbled, tiny voice thick with sleep.

"Hello, love," Sherlock chuckled, still carding through his son's curls. 

"'Es... He'o, Daddy." A small smile danced over Hamish's lips as he glanced around just enough to catch a glimpse of his uncle. "Unc'mel My?" he asked excitedly, mustering enough energy to sit up.

"Yes. I'm afraid Molly was unavailable to watch you today, so... Uncle Mycroft graciously obliged."

"'Es! Unc'mel My!" Gasping excitedly to himself, Hamish attempted to scoot himself off the lounge, though ended up falling in his haste.

"Oh! Careful, Hamish," Sherlock laughed, instantly catching the little boy with deft hands. "Not so quickly next time, yes?"

"Mm. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled, wrapping his arms around the detective's neck as a way of thanks before toddling excitedly over to Mycroft. "Unc'mel My!" he squealed as he wrapped his arms around the government official's thigh, giggling into the fabric of his beige suit.

"Ah. Hello there, Hamish." Setting his umbrella against the wall, Mycroft leaned down and lifted Hamish into his arms. "You've been well?" he asked once the little boy was settled atop his hip.

"'Es, My. Lots."

"Lots. Well, that's very good, isn't it?" 

"Mmm," Hamish merely giggled in response, tucking his head under Mycroft's chin as he pressed his little self close. "My... I does 'ove."

"Oh, I..." Lips parting just slightly, Mycroft glanced to John, who smiled encouragingly. "Yes. I quite love you, as well, Hamish."

"Mmm." 

Despite his mild distaste for his brother, a smile twitched at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Right. I'll just get my coat. Are you ready to leave, John?" the detective asked as he grabbed his Belstaff from the back of a nearby chair and draped the fabric over his slender form. 

"Yep. Got the case file?"

"I've no need of it anymore."

"Right." 

"Yes. Now, then... Goodbye hugs and kisses, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, taking a step towards Mycroft.

"Ah. Yes, of course." Obliging his brother's silent request, Mycroft passed Hamish into the detective's arms.

"Ahh, there he is. Now, then," Sherlock murmured, pressing several kisses to his son's cheeks and nose, "you will be good, of course?"

"Daddy," Hamish giggled, as if checking for such a thing was silly.

"I know. My apologies, love. Mmm. I'll miss you, as usual. But John and I should both be back before dark, all right?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

"Good. And you know that you can call me at anytime, yes?" A nod. "Yes. Now, then. I do believe you are shorting me several kisses," Sherlock hinted playfully, tilting his head just enough so that his son would be able to reach a cheek. 

"'Es, Daddy. Lots kisses." Pursing his small lips, upon which there happened to be a smile, Hamish leaned his small form up and pressed several kisses to Sherlock's sculpted cheeks. "Nose 'ease, Daddy."

"Of course. My apologies." Sherlock tilted his head to the side and then down.

"Tank-su, Daddy." 

The detective couldn't help but chuckle when Hamish placed two hands to each side of his face, as if to make sure he was not going anywhere, before the little boy pressed his tiny lips atop his nose. 

"'Kay, Daddy. Is good now. Can get ah baddies," Hamish stated with a firm nod of his head.

"Quite right. Or we're going to try, at least." After giving his son another kiss, Sherlock passed Hamish back to Mycroft. "Right, then. Ready, John?"

"Yep! I'm good. Bye, bud. We'll be back later, okay?" 

"'Kay, John." Hamish waved a single hand in the doctor's direction.

"Good." John returned the wave with a smile. "See you, little man," he murmured, before making his way down the stairs after Sherlock, who seemed to be muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

"Ohh... Right, then. We get to spend a day together," Mycroft declared with his own unique kind of excitement. 

"'Es! What we is be doing?"

"Oh, well... I don't really know. Anything you're in the mood for, I suppose." 

"Hmm." Hamish rested his head atop Mycroft's shoulder while he contemplated. "Oh! Down 'ease My!" 

Obeying, Mycroft lowered his tiny nephew onto the ground and then watched as the little boy toddled over to his toy bin. 

"Come, My."

"Of course." Not bothering to grab his umbrella, the government official sauntered over to Hamish, who had plopped himself on the ground. 

"I has lots ah puzz'mels," the little boy explained, completely delighted. With a grunt of effort, Hamish stood and then managed to pull out several puzzles from the toy bin, gently setting them on the ground. "Oof!" he exclaimed when he fell back, landing on his bottom.

"Oh! Are you all right, Hamish?" Mycroft asked worriedly.

"'Es, My," Hamish giggled, quickly standing once again. "I does fall lots," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Oh. Well, that's... good, I suppose."

"'Ep! 'Tat what John does say. 'Ep!' Oh! My, look! Puzz'mels!" Quickly switching gears, and now bouncing up and down on his small legs, Hamish more-or-less hopped over to the puzzles he'd set down and then plopped on the floor. "Wants ah do one?" 

"Oh, yes, sure. If that's what you want to do?"

"'Es 'ease, My. I likes ah puzz'mels."

"Very well then. That's what we shall do." Feeling somewhat out of his depth, Mycroft scooted himself closer to his tiny nephew and watched as the little boy picked a puzzle and then flipped it over, letting all the pieces fall from their wood placings.

"'Kay, My." Completely serious, Hamish delicately scooted away his other puzzles and then gazed at the current one, green eyes studying the pieces in front of him. "'Tis is ah hard one."

"I see. Well, I'm quite honored to be helping you with it."

"Mmm." Smiling, Hamish scooted over to his uncle and then crawled into his lap. "I 'oves, My."

"I love you, too, Hamish."

"Mmm." 

Mycroft watched with fond eyes as Hamish turned his attention back to the puzzle and started completing it, picking each piece with rather cute precision. And the government official couldn't help but notice the incredible resemblances between the little boy sitting in his lap and his father, remembering years of completing similar puzzles with his own little brother. 

 

 

 

"You're sure you don't use a pram when you go to the park?" Mycroft asked once again, raising a skeptical brow at his nephew.

"My!" Hamish exclaimed, having apparently confirmed this statement far too many times. Bottom lip protruding as he frowned, the little boy plopped himself on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. "I an' Daddy walk. Not pram."

Mycroft allowed himself a fond roll of his eyes. "Well, if you're sure?"

"'Es, My. Daddy not does use ah pram. We walks. An' I not lies," the little boy added seriously, quite clearly upset that his uncle seemed to have thought he'd done so. 

"Hm," Mycroft hummed, gazing at his small nephew with serious eyes. "My apologies," he murmured. "... All right." The government official couldn't help but chuckle when Hamish bounced up from his spot on the ground and hurried over to the stairs, quite clearly ready to go. "You're very ready, then."

"'Es, 'es! I is be lots ready. But I not does like ah stairs. Can carry, My?"

"Yes, of course." Umbrella in hand, Mycroft sauntered over to the stairs and then lifted Hamish onto his hip. "Good?"

"'Es..." Snuggling contently into his uncle's hold, Hamish rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder as he was slowly carried down the stairs. "Tank-su My," he whispered.

"You're quite welcome, Hamish."

Now at the bottom of the stairs, Hamish wriggled just a bit, indicating that he wished to be put down. Once on the ground, the little boy slid his hand into his uncle's and huddled close to his taller form, gazing up at the doorknob, waiting expectantly. 

"Right, then. Ready?"

"'Es."

"Very well." 

 

 

 

 

Mycroft had to admit he was rather impressed with his nephew when he managed to make it to the park without asking to be held once. "I suppose I owe you an apology, Hamish," the government official admitted as he made his way to a nearby bench.

"Not. Is 'kay, My. I still 'ove. Oh! Swings 'ease. Is my... oh, uh... my fav'ur'mite?"

"Favourite," Mycroft supplied with a smile, already leading the two of them over to the swingset. "Do you need help into one?"

"'Es 'ease. 'Tis one?" Hamish asked, pointing to his favourite swing. 

"Yes, of course." With a smile, Mycroft leant down and lifted Hamish up, setting him in the swing. "Good?" 

"'Es, My. Tank-su!"

The government official merely smiled, giving his delighted little nephew a push.

 

 

Once Hamish had had his fill of the park, the little boy decided it was time for dinner. 

"Well, where would you like to go?" Mycroft asked as he walked hand-in-hand with the little boy down the sidewalk.

"Subs shop?" Hamish suggested with a shrug.

"That works for me." Mycroft felt a strange, yet familiar flutter in his chest when he felt Hamish squeeze several of his fingers. "Mmm."

Once at the sub shop next to 221B, Mycroft seat the two of them at a small booth, thanking the waitress when she handed Hamish a coloring menu and crayons. "So, then... What would you like to eat?" 

"Fish and chippies 'ease. Mmm. Daddy does eat wif' me," Hamish explained contently as he drew on the children's menu. 

"Oh, that's lovely," Mycroft stated truthfully. "Does your father do a lot with you?"

"'Es," Hamish answered, pressing his lips together to form a smile. "I 'ove..."

"Yes... I know you do." 

"Do you two know what you would like to eat?" the waitress asked, pad of paper in hand.

"Yes. I'll just have a glass of water, and he will have the fish and chips... Thank you." 

"Tank-su, My."

"You're most certainly welcome." 

Mycroft waited patiently for the food, watching fondly as Hamish continued to doodle over his menu, humming to himself every once in awhile. "Ah, here we are," the government official hummed when the waitress returned, food in hand.

"Oh. Tank-su," Hamish thanked with a small smile. 

"My, excellent manners, Hamish," Mycroft praised. The little oby merely grinned in response. "Now, uh... dig in, I suppose."

"Mmm," Hamish giggled, unused to hearing his uncle use such vernacular.

"What?" Mycroft asked with a twitch of a smile.

"Not," the little boy answered, still giggling madly.

"Nothing?" A giggle. "Oh, very well." Pretending to be oblivious, Mycroft glanced to his side, peeking at his little nephew out of the corner of his eyes. The government official chuckled when Hamish took a bite of his chips, peering up at him with a pleased giggle. "Mmm. You are something else," he whispered to himself. "And yet so like your father."

Suddenly, images of a two-year-old Sherlock peering playfully up at him from the dinner table flashed in and out of Mycroft's mind. "Just like your father..."

"What, My?"

"Hm? Oh. Nothing, Hamish." 

 

 

 

"Tank-su, Kare'men!" Hamish called behind him to the waitress as they left the sub shop.

"Karen? How did you know her name was Karen?" Mycroft asked confusedly, leading the small boy up the steps to the flat. 

"Daddy did say."

"And you remembered?"

"'Es," Hamish stated as if confused. "Not is good, My?"

"What? No, no! That's rather incredible, Hamish. No, that... that's amazing. You are a very clever little boy. 

"Oh. Tank-su, My!" Hamish gasped. 

Mycroft momentarily froze when he felt two tiny arms wrap themselves around his leg. "Oh. You're very welcome, Hamish," he chuckled, giving the little boy a soft pat on the back. "And you certainly deserved it." 

"Mmm."

Once in the flat, Mycroft soon realized that Hamish had gotten rather filthy from dinner. "You're rather dirty, aren't you?" he chuckled.

"What? Oh. 'Es. I can fix! Stay. I be back." 

Mycroft watched rather confusedly as Hamish's form toddled away into the kitchen. After several seconds of rustling, several more moments of disgruntled mutters, and a few thuds, the little boy returned, almost completely naked, save for his pull-up. "Fixted!" he declared, quite proud of himself. With breathy laughs, Hamish toddled over to the couch and hoisted himself onto it. 

"Oh. Well, I suppose that's certainly one way to fix it." 

"'Es. I is good now... My?"

"Yes, Hamish."

Playing with his bellybutton, Hamish suddenly looked rather feeble. "I can talk ah Daddy?" he asked, eyes downcast.

"Oh. Oh! Yes, yes of course." Mycroft hurriedly pulled out his mobile, and dialed his brother's number. "Of course." The government official sat down next to his nephew when Sherlock answered the phone after just two rings. 

"Yes, yes, what is it? Is Hamish all right?" the detective asked worriedly.

"Calm down, Sherlock," Mycroft scolded. "Hamish is fine. He was just missing you." 

"Oh. Oh, here put him on." 

Mycroft chuckled as he heard his brother scolding and shushing everyone in the background. "Here you are, Hamish."

Haphazardly handling the mobile he'd been passed, Hamish managed to put the phone to his ear. "He'o, Daddy," he whispered into the speaker.

"Hello, Hamish. Is everything all right, love?"

"'Es, Daddy. I wanted ah say he'o. An' I miss."

"I miss you very much, too, Hamish. And I'm sorry I'm not home today."

"It is 'kay, Daddy. My is lots fun. Have lots ah fun," Hamish reassured with a smile. 

"Mmm. I'm very glad to hear that."

"I not haves clothes on!" the little boy declared proudly, as if such a thing was a great accomplishment.

"Oh, is that so?" Sherlock laughed fondly. "Well, that's a good thing, yes?"

"Mmm. 'Es, Daddy. I was lots dirty."

"Well, then that is a very good thing. Mmm. I love you, Hamish," Sherlock murmured. "And I miss you very much."

"I 'oves too, Daddy." 

"What? What did you say?" Sherlock murmured suddenly, voice excited.

"I nots know, Daddy. What I did say?"

"You said 'too!' Ha! Hamish, that is wonderful! Oh, Hamish, love, I'm so proud of you! My goodness, you are such a clever boy. And I miss you very much. Oh, you are brilliant, and I do so love you."

Now beaming, Hamish hummed contently to himself. "I 'oves, Daddy," he spoke into the phone, smiling. "Tank-su... Miss." 

"I miss you, too, Hamish."

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy. I is good now. B-bye."

"Goodbye, love," Sherlock chuckled with a smile. "Could you hand the phone back to Uncle Mycroft for me?"

"'Es. My? Is Daddy. Wants ah talk." 

"Ah. Thank you. Little brother."

"He sounds quite happy."

"I think he is." 

"Good. Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid this case is going to take longer than originally anticipated," Sherlock explained with a sigh. "We will most likely be returning home after Hamish is asleep." 

"That's quite all right."

"Good... Here, watch a movie with him. It's considered a treat to have a late movie night, so allow him to pick a film, as way of apologies from me."

"Very well... He's incredibly intelligent, Sherlock."

"Hmm. Yes. He is, isn't he?" 

"Quite... Good luck. Nothing dangerous, I trust?"

"Not so far." 

"Good. Good evening."

"Mmm."

"B-bye, Daddy!" Hamish called loudly, hurrying over to the phone. 

Mycroft put the mobile on speaker. "Goodbye, Hamish. I love you very much."

"I 'oves too, Daddy! Kisses!" Grinning, Hamish pressed both of his hands to his lips and then with a loud 'smooch' sound, pressed his fingers to the phone. 

Sherlock laughed aloud, deep voice rumbling through the phone. "Kisses, Hamish." The detective mimicked the sound. "Goodnight, love." 

"Nigh' night. " 

Mycroft ended the call with a smile. "Now, your father has informed me that, since he's going to be a bit later than he expected, we should watch a movie before you go to bed. Would you care to pick?"

"'Kay." Hamish slid off the couch with a grunt and then hurried over to where they kept their movies, instantly knowing which one he was going to choose. "'Tis one," he breathed, toddling back over to the couch, movie clutched close to his bare chest. "'Ease."

Mycroft took the video from his nephew and glanced at the cover. "Frozen?"

"'Es!" Bouncing up and down, Hamish watched his uncle's every move as the government official left the couch, pulled the DVD out of the case, and put it into the player. "Is my fav'ur'mite! Has Elsa an-an' Anna. I like ah songs. Mmm."

Mycroft couldn't help but smile at the pure joy that was practically radiating from every pore of his little nephew. 

"Does like, My?" Hamish asked excitedly as he hoisted himself onto the couch.

"I'm afraid to say that I have never seen this movie, Hamish," Mycroft admitted as he took a seat next to his nephew. 

The little boy looked positively appalled. "Not have seen?" he gasped, eyes wide and quite clearly shocked.

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft chuckled. "But I'm very glad to be watching it with you now." 

"Mmm." As the movie started opening, Hamish gasped quietly to himself and then settled himself next to Mycroft's side, snuggling close to the government official. 

Not quite sure of his movements, Mycroft hesitantly wrapped an arm around Hamish's bare form. He breathed a sigh of relief when the little boy hummed contently to himself and nestled even closer. "Good?"

"'Es, My... Lots good."

"Excellent." 

 

 

 

"Damn it, John, shush!" Sherlock exclaimed as he stumbled up the stairs, attempting to make his way up in the dark. "He's probably asleep."

"Well, sorry, but I'm trying to stop you trailing blood everywhere."

"If you would let me hold the bloody cloth, I could protect my own wound, thank you." 

"Shush! Both of you!" came the whispering voice of Mycroft. "He's asleep." 

"Told you."

Soon, Sherlock's form came into view. Mycroft could see the detective was pressing a cloth to the curve of his cheekbone. "Hurt?"

"No, just the graze from a bullet." 

"It's a fairly deep wound, Sherlock!" 

"It's fine. Is he... Ah," Sherlock hummed with a smile upon catching sight of his son's half-naked form, snuggled closely to his brother's. The detective glanced to the TV screen and chuckled. "Frozen. Yes, he's suddenly become quite fond of this one." 

"Hmm. It's not an entirely awful film, I suppose. The music can be quite interesting at times."

Sherlock raised his brows in agreement. "Thank you, Mycroft. John, can you see him out so I can put him to bed?"

The doctor heaved a sigh. "Yes, but then we are tending to that cheek, yes?"

"Oh, fine. Now. Come here, love." Smiling, Sherlock eagerly scooped his son's form into his arms, and then pressed him close, keeping him situated with a hand to his back. 

"Mmm." Eyes fluttering just slightly, Hamish subconsciously wrapped his arms around his father's neck, lulled by the gentle swaying of each of the detective's step, and soothed by his familiar scent and hold.

"Hello, Hamish," Sherlock murmured as he slowly ascended the stairs to his son's room. "Mmm. I missed you."

"Mm-ah. H... He'o, Daddy," Hamish mumbled against the pale skin of the detective's neck. "Mmm."

"Shh... You're all right. I've got you, love, hmm?"

"Mm."

"Quite right." Having reached his son's room, Sherlock pushed open the door and then padded over to the little bed. "Going down," he murmured as he lowered Hamish onto the bed.

"Oh... Da...Daddy?"

"Yes, love?" Sherlock asked, brushing several curls out of his son's eyes with the back of his knuckles. 

"My? My..."

"Yes, he's still here," the detective chuckled.

"I... I 'oves..."

"Don't worry, little one. I'll tell him."

"Hmm." With a soft exhale of breath, Hamish fell asleep, leaning into his father's warm touch. 

"I'll tell him... Goodnight, Hamish." After several more strokes of his fingers through his son's auburn curls, Sherlock pressed several kisses to the little boy's warm forehead and then left the bed, pleased when Hamish did not wake. 

"Is he down?" John asked once his flat mate returned from Hamish's room.

"Yes. Mycroft?"

The government official stopped twirling his umbrella where he was standing at the landing of the stairs. "Hmm?"

"I'm supposed to tell you that Hamish loves you." 

"Oh. Oh, well that's... yes, very good... He's... quite lovely."

"Mmm. I quite agree."

"Not unlike you."

"What?"

"When you were younger, I mean. There are many similarities between you two."

"Oh. Are there? I suppose I've never really made comparisons between my younger self. Hmm. That's quite interesting, actually," Sherlock mused aloud. 

"Mm. Perhaps. Thank you for asking me to watch him today. It was surprisingly pleasant. Good evening, Doctor Watson. Little brother." And then, still twirling his umbrella, Mycroft silently let himself from the flat.

"That's very interesting, John."

"Perhaps. Now, your cheek—"

"Bloody hell!"


	54. The Little Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, guys! So sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoy this little fluffy, filler chapter! Also, I'm not quite sure what happened with the beginning bit, though I had quite a bit of fun writing it. =) Thanks everyone for all of your constant support! (Also, I'm still taking suggestions and would certainly love some!) 
> 
> Thank you everyone! =)

"Daddy?" Hamish asked the next morning after he had crawled into his father's bed and had caught sight of the gash across the detective's alabaster skin. "You has ah ouchie, Daddy," he stated with a gasp.

"Wha... Mm. Goodmorning, love. What are you... Oh." Suddenly remembering the goings-on of the previous night, Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position and then crossed his legs under the covers, allowing Hamish to sit in the hole they made. "Yes, I... I'm afraid I did get a bit hurt, didn't I?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed, the frown clear in his tiny voice. "Big. Not is teeny." 

"No, I suppose not... But I'm all right, Hamish. Really."

"... Prom'kiss?" the little boy asked skeptically. 

Sherlock smiled. "Promise."

"'Kay. Oh!" Having quite clearly decided his father's promise was sufficient enough reassurance that the detective was well, Hamish quickly changed the topic of conversation. "Did catch all ah baddies?" he asked eagerly, gripping ahold of his father's larger hand. 

"Indeed," Sherlock chuckled, crawling out of bed with a groan. "Though there was only one to catch this time. But yes. John and I both got him," he added with a smile, settling his son safely on his hip. "And I hear you and Uncle Mycroft had quite a good time, as well, hmm?"

Resting his head atop Sherlock's shoulder, Hamish nodded and a content little smile spread across his lips as he was carried into the kitchen. "'Es, Daddy. I does 'oves My lots."

"Hmm. I know you do," Sherlock whispered fondly. "Tell me. Do you know if John is up?"

"Not is, Daddy," Hamish concluded with a firm nod of his head.

"Very good. Thank you."

"Wel'c'min, Daddy. Oh." Now in proper light, the gash dancing brightly across his father's face seemed far more prominent than it had before. "Daddy," the little boy sighed sadly, touching several tiny fingers to the cut. 

"I'm all right, Hamish. Really. I promised, remember?" When he was met with a skeptical frown, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. Suddenly realizing he probably should have allowed John to tend to the wound last night, Sherlock reached a hand up to his cheek, where he covered his son's much-smaller on, and urged his fingers away. "How about we have a go at patching me up, hmm?" he suggested with a smile.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed. "Much 'es. Down 'ease."

"Much yes? Well, that's quite a lot," Sherlock laughed as he obeyed and set Hamish on the ground.

"'Es. 'Kay. Stay 'ease, Daddy," Hamish instructed. 

Sherlock watched fondly as the little boy toddled over to the cabinet where they kept the first-aid kit. The detective suddenly realized he was rather saddened by the fact that his son even knew where the safety kits were kept... Hamish was growing up. Something Sherlock knew he was not yet ready to face. 

"Oof! Can helps 'ease?" the little boy grunted when he found the first-aid kit was far heavier than he had originally anticipated.

A warm grin. "Of course." Once again obeying, Sherlock crouched down next to the cabinet in question and pulled out the first-aid kit. "Where to, Doctor Hamish?" the detective asked, attempting to sound serious, though he was unable to conceal a smile at the way his son's features were suddenly lit by a grin. 

"Daddy, Daddy! I has ah-ah doct'mor!" Bouncing up and down on his chubby legs, Hamish toddled away into the sitting room, murmuring and gasping excitedly to himself.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed. He could hear the sounds of Hamish digging through the toy bin in the next room.

"You two up already?"

Sherlock turned around to find John, clothed in a robe, standing in the doorway. "Indeed."

"And what's Hame doing, then?"

"Well, he was quite upset upon seeing this—" the detective gestured to his cheek, "—so he's quite determined to have a go at healing it."

"Ah. Doctor's kit, then?"

"Precisely."

As if on cue, Hamish toddled back into view, the little toy doctor's kit he'd received as a gift from John in hand.

"Good?" Sherlock chuckled.

"'Es, Daddy. Lots is be good," Hamish reassured, quite excited at the prospect of being a 'doctor.'

"Very good. So then. Where would you like this?"

"On ah table?"

"Excellent choice... Doctor Hamish," Sherlock replied with a coy smile and a wink, more than happy to play into his son's game.

Giggling madly, Hamish hurried over and wrapped his arms around his father's legs. "Tank-su, Daddy," he hummed into the detective's thigh.

"You're very welcome, love. Now, then..." With a playful groan, Sherlock set Hamish and his toy set on the table, next to the first aid kit. "Where would you like me?"

"Sit 'ease." Scooting over to his things, Hamish gestured to a chair.

"Very good, then." Sherlock obeyed with a fond smile.

"'Kay, Daddy. Not 'eave."

"Oh, wouldn't dream of it," the detective murmured.

"Good." Grunting just a tad, Hamish scooted his little self to the edge of the table and then set his legs over the edge, allowing his feet to dangle just about his father's thighs. "'Kay. I needs ah pastor."

"Plaster," Sherlock corrected fondly.

"'Es. John?"

"Yeah, Hame?"

"Can help?" 

"Yeah, of course!" Taking a seat next to his flat mate, John clicked open the first-aid kit and pulled out a handful of plasters. "There you go, little man."

"Tank-su, John. 'Kay, Daddy. Ah goes."

The detective's lips quirked at the corners.

After sorting through the many different shapes and sizes of plasters, the little boy eventually decided upon a plain bandage that was just slightly too small for the cut. "Good, Daddy?" he asked, delicately holding the plaster up between several tiny fingers.

Sherlock exchanged a smile with John before murmuring, "Perfect." 

"'Kay. I is ah do put on now." 

"Okay," Sherlock smiled, quite amazed by his little son, yet saddened by how qwuickly he seemed to be learning. "Okay..."

With the unique delicacy of a two-year-old Holmes, Hamish leaned forward and rather haphazardly placed the plaster over the gash across his father's cheek. "Done, Daddy," the little boy whispered, leaning back. "'Etter?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed. "Much better, my love."

A grin graced the little boy's lips. "Kisses?"

"Oh, if you would be so kind," Sherlock thanked graciously and with a smile.

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy." Giggling contently to himself, Hamish hopped off the table and into his father's lap. Holding his breath, as if worried that an exhale of breath would harm his father, the little boy wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and pressed a tender kiss atop the plaster. "Kisses," he repeated with a whisper.

"Kisses," Sherlock agreed.

"Now is much 'etter?"

"Mmm. Indeed I am. Much better."

"Good!" Quite bubbly once again, Hamish released his father from his tiny grasp and then crawled back atop the table. "'Kay, John," he sighed, as if the workload he'd just finished with was terribly taxing. "I is ah doct'mor. John is sick?"

Concealing a smile, but sharing a glance with his flat mate, the doctor turned his gaze back to his little flat mate.

"Does has ah ouchie?"

Seeing as it was quite clear Hamish was wanting him to answer yes, the doctor did so. "Well, come to think of it..." The doctor playfully gestured that Hamish was supposed to lean in, which the little boy did with the utmost seriousness. "I've got a terrible ache right here." John gestured to his middle.

"Oh. Not is good, John," Hamish concluded with a sad little sigh.

"Quite so," the doctor agreed.

"'Kay. I has ah look."

"Have a look?" Sherlock mouthed to himself with a mild frown, so unused to hearing his son use such advanced vocabulary.

Now immersed in his task of 'fixing' John, and with a small grunt, Hamish clicked open his doctor's kit and then pulled out a tiny, brightly colored stethoscope which he then--after a tad of struggling--managed to properly wrap around his neck. Then, end of the stethoscope grasped in his tiny, chubby fingers, the little boy crawled into John's lap and pressed the plastic device to the doctor's chest. "Uh-oh," he gasped with a frown.

"Not good?"

"Not good," Hamish agreed with a solemn nod of his head. "'Es. John is sick. But it is 'kay. I has a... oh." Realizing he wasn't quite sure what he needed, the little boy hopped back atop the table and then, after rummaging through his tiny doctor's kit, pulled out a small cup, clearly for liquid medicine. Plastic in hand, Hamish scooted over to his father. "Daddy?" he asked, whispering.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock responded with a smile, also whispering.

"Can help wif' is?"

"I would love to." Knowing what his son was wanting, Sherlock took the small cup from Hamish's hand, and then scooped the little boy into his arms. "By the way," he whispered fondly as he padded over to the fridge, "the word you're searching for is 'medicine.'"

"Mmm. Tank-su, Daddy," Hamish hummed. A content smile on his lips, the little boy rested his head atop Sherlock's shoulder and waited patiently while the detective filled his plastic cup with grape juice.

Cup in hand and cuddling Hamish close, Sherlock once again resumed his seat at the kitchen table and then set his son on John's lap. "There you go," he stated, passing over the small cup of 'medicine.'

"Tank-su, Daddy."

"You're very welcome, Hamish. Lovely manners, by the way," Sherlock praised with a wink.

Giggling, Hamish carefully passed the grape juice to John, who accepted it graciously. "Why, thank you," the doctor chuckled. "And this will make me better, yes?"

"'Ep! Is what John says. 'Ep!"

"Excellent," John laughed, quickly downing the juice. "Thank you for that... Doctor Hamish," he added with a wink. "Anything else?"

"Oh 'es," Hamish sighed seriously. "I has lots ah do." 

"Ah... On both of us, right?"

"Well," Sherlock sighed loudly as he stood, "you've done an excellent job of patching me up, Hamish," he chuckled happily, ignoring the glare he knew John was sending him. "But, seeing as that's all you needed to do, and I have work to do, I think I'll just slip out and leave you to tend to John, yeah?"

"'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish declared contently, smiling up at his father. "Has ah case ah do?"

"Mmm. Indeed," Sherlock hummed seriously. "But you'll take good care of John and fix him up, won't you?"

"Bloody git," the doctor mumbled under his breath.

Sherlock merely chuckled to himself.

"'Es, Daddy! I will..." With a nod of his head, the little boy turned back to his little doctor's kit, indicating that he was going 'back to work.' 

"Excellent." With a quick kiss to the top of his son's head, and a coy smile to his scowling flat mate, Sherlock quickly slipped from the kitchen, chuckling to himself when he heard Hamish give some apparently grave news to John. "Sorry, John," the detective whispered with a chuckle as he threw himself onto the couch. "My sincerest apologies."

 

 

 

Several days later, Sherlock was lying on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin while he pondered the details of a case Lestrade had just handed him when he felt a tapping on his leg. Glancing down out of the corner of his eyes, the detective saw Hamish, clothed only in a pull-up, and with an empty sippy cup in his hand, "Daddy?"

"Yes, love?" Sherlock asked, quickly pulling the little boy onto the couch with him. "What's wrong, Hamish?"

"I is out." Frowning slightly, Hamish held up his cup.

"Ah. I see. So you are." Smiling apologetically, Sherlock swung his legs off the couch and then pulled his son onto his lap. "Apologies, love."

"It is 'kay, Daddy. I jus' needs ah help."

A smile. "Right. Well, then. Up we go." Taking the cup from his son's little hands, Sherlock stood, hoisting Hamish up with him. "Juice or water?" he asked as he padded into the kitchen.

"Zeus?"

"Excellent," Sherlock agreed with a chuckle. Playfully patting his son on the bottom, the detective swung open the refrigerator door. "Oh," he hummed with a frown upon finding the fridge was practically empty. "It would seem a trip to the shops is long overdue, hmm?"

Also examining the practically-empty contents of the fridge with his deep green eyes, Hamish nodded in agreement. "'Es, Daddy. Shops," he agreed with a serious little quirk of his lips.

Laughing at his son's solemness, Sherlock closed the door and then set the little boy on the counter. "Also, I've an experiment I need to conduct and do not have the items I need in the flat. Would you care to be my helper?" the detective asked with a fond twitch of his lips.

"Real, Daddy?" Hamish gasped, green eyes widening.

"Of course! But first, we must get dressed, yes?"

"Oh." Frowning at the prospect of having to put on clothes, Hamish lowered his gaze. "I has, Daddy?"

"Yes. You have to," Sherlock chuckled, gathering the little boy into his arms once again. "I fear we would not be graciously welcomed if you were half-naked."

"Oh. Pants?"

"Indeed."

"Hurt?"

"Shirt," Sherlock corrected with a chuckle as he padded up the stairs and into Hamish's room. "And yes. You need a shirt, too." Running several fingers up and down his son's bare back, Sherlock set the little boy on the ground and then hurried over to the tiny dresser. An outfit in hand, the detective knelt down in front of Hamish, laughing aloud upon seeing the frown on the little boy's lips. "Oh, cheer up, love," he chuckled. "Clothes aren't all that bad."

"Is," Hamish muttered with a frown.

"Not. Now, arms up." A playful eyebrow raised, Sherlock quickly pulled a shirt and pair of pants onto a now-grumpy Hamish. "Thank you."

"Welc'min."

"Excellent manners, love. Now, seeing as I'm still in my pajamas, and I chose your outfit, would you care to help me with mine?"

Attempting to conceal the eager smile now threatening to pull at the corner of his lips, Hamish dropped his gaze to the floor and gave a bashful nod of his head, trying to appear non-chalant.

Seeing right through his son's attempt at concealing his excitement, Sherlock quickly swooped down and then hoisted the little boy onto his shoulder, toting him back down the stairs. "I saw that smile," he teased playfully, tickling Hamish's back.

"Not did, Daddy!" the little boy giggled, muffling his laughs in his father's silky robe.

"Yes, I did!" Now in his own room, Sherlock playfully but gently tossed his son's mall form onto the bed. "You know," he added more seriously, taking a seat, "I think you should know something." The detective waited while Hamish made his way over to him and allowed the little boy to settle against his thigh. "Mmm. Hamish..." Sherlock waited, taking a slow breath while he gazed into his son's impossibly deep green eyes.

"'Es, Daddy? What is?" the little boy whispered.

"I just... hope you know how much I love you," Sherlock murmured with a hint of a smile. "That's all, I suppose... You're quite something else, you know. And growing up so quickly."

"Hmm," Hamish hummed to himself, a bashful smile gracing his lips. "I 'oves too, Daddy." Gazing up at his father, the little boy quickly crawled into Sherlock's lap and wrapped his small arms around the detective's neck.

A smile. "And I'm quite glad to hear it," Sherlock hummed, returning the hug by wrapping both of his arms around his son's small form. "Right, then. Clothes. Yes." With a tender peck to his son's forehead, the detective released Hamish from his grasp and then padded over to his closet. Reaching in, he pulled out two shirts—one purple, and one blue—and then held them up for Hamish to see.

"'Tis one!" the little boy declared, almost instantly pointing to the purple one.

"My thoughts exactly." Smiling fondly, Sherlock pulled off his robe and t-shirt and tossed them playfully towards Hamish, who dodged them with a giggle. After having re-hung the blue button-up, the detective pulled on the purple one and began threading each of the buttons through their respective holes.

"Oh! I can help, Daddy?"

"Of course." Releasing the fabric from his deft fingers, Sherlock padded over to the bed and sat, once again allowing Hamish to take a seat in his lap.

"'Kay, Daddy... 'Tis one... Uhm..." A button in hand and with the utmost concentration, Hamish very carefully began to do up his father's buttons, one by one.

And, though putting on the shirt took several minutes longer than it would have had he been doing up the shirt, Sherlock was more than happy to watch as his son managed to do up each and every one on his own, tiny fingers moving incredibly slowly.

"Done, Daddy," Hamish whispered once he was done, tugging absently at the bottom of his father's shirt. "Good?"

"Mmm. Quite. Thank you very much, love," Sherlock whispered, smiling down into his son's precious features. "Now, then... Any idea where you shoes may be?"

"Oh..." 

 

 

 

"Now, Hamish. Remember, we stay together at all times, correct?" Sherlock asked as the taxi approached the tube station.

"'Es," Hamish agreed seriously.

"Right. And you must make sure that you either keep ahold of my hand or that you can see me at all times. If you get lost, you are to do what?"

"'Tay."

"Exactly. Stay. Very good remembering, Hamish. That was an excellent job."

"Tank-su, Daddy," the little boy hummed.

Sherlock turned his silvery gaze to the tiny being next to him, still finding he was quite amazed by his son and all of the information he retained, how intelligent he was. "Mmm," the detective hummed, though the sound was rather bittersweet. He barely even noticed as the cab rolled to a stop.

"Daddy?"

"Mmm."

"Daddy," Hamish giggled. "Is string."

"What? Oh. Staring, again? Was I really?" Sherlock murmured with a shake of his head and a quirk of his lips. 

"'Es, Daddy."

"Apologies."

"Is 'kay. Daddy is nice ah look at."

This elicited a laugh. "Am I?" Sherlock chuckled deeply, undoing Hamish's seatbelt and pulling the little boy out of the cab and onto his hip.

"'Es. 'Tis nice," Hamish reassured as he wrapped his arms around his father's shoulders. "Lots is be nice."

"Hmm. Well, I... Yes. Thank you, Hamish. Would you like to know something?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"I like this..." A kiss to his son's nose. "And this." Another kiss to each cheek. "And this and this and this." Now chuckling, Sherlock pressed several quick pecks to anywhere he could easily reach while making his way through the tube station. To his son's chin and fingers and hair...

"Daddy! 'Ease stop, Daddy! No!" Hamish squealed, attempting to escape his father's ticklish kisses.

"All right, all right. I'm done... I'm done."

Now free, Hamish quickly buried his face in the collar of his father's jacket, effectively protecting himself from any further tickles. "Daddy," he giggled once again into the fabric. "Is silly, Daddy..."

"I suppose I am, aren't I?" 

"'Es. Lots is be, Daddy." 

The detective merely smiled, enjoying the feeling of Hamish's grip tightening around his neck. 

 

 

 

Once Sherlock had finally managed to tote an incredibly-excited Hamish off the tube and into the store, it was nearly lunchtime. 

"No 'ease, Daddy," Hamish protested as his father tried to place him in the trolley seat. "I is hungry."

"I'm sorry, Hamish. But we've got to get the shopping done today; we've nothing to eat at home. You'll just have to wait." When the little boy continued protesting by crossing his arms and pouting, the detective raised a warning brow. "Do I need to count?" 

Heaving a frustrated little sigh, Hamish shook his head and released his arms. "No, Daddy." 

"Very good. Thank you. Can I put you in the seat now?" 

"But it is for teeny boys. I is ah big boy," Hamish protested with a confused frown.

And Sherlock would have raised a warning brow again had he not seen that his son was genuinely confused and wondering why he should have to sit in the seat. Though he wouldn't admit, the detective was rather quite pleased that Hamish had made a plausible argument for why he shouldn't have to use the trolley seat. 

"I not does 'stand, Daddy," Hamish added with a whisper.

Lips quirking at the corners, Sherlock lowered Hamish onto the ground and then knelt in front of him. "How about we make a deal. Yes?" A nod. "Excellent. Seeing as I find your argument to be somewhat valid, I will give you two choices. You can sit in the trolley seat now, or you can walk along with me. Yes?"

Hamish contemplated for a moment, absentmindedly tracing patterns over and across the hand his father currently had around his middle. "I walk," he concluded quietly after a few moments.

"Sure?"

"'Es, Daddy. I not does like ah troll seat."

"Trolley," Sherlock corrected with a laugh. "Fair enough. Right, then. Milk. We need milk."

"'Es. John did say." 

"Did he?" 

"'Es, Daddy." Grinning contently to himself at having gotten out of using the trolley seat, Hamish hurriedly toddled after Sherlock, who had begun gliding away towards the dairy section, and tangled a hand in the detective's long trousers. "Milk?"

Sherlock turned back and coulnd't help but smile at the sight of Hamish trailing behind him, a hand holding fast to the fabric of his pants. "Milk." 

"'Kay."

 

 

 

 

Several aisles later, Sherlock was knelt down on one knee, attempting to soothe Hamish, who was now in tears over the several boxes of cereal he'd managed to spill across the aisle.

"Hamish, love," the detective murmured, rubbing circles up and down his son's back, "it's just cereal. There was no harm done. Everyone bumps and spills groceries now and again."

The little boy just continued to sob into Sherlock's shoulder, as if the world had come to a halting end. "I did break," he cried, two tiny fists clutching ahold of the fabric of his father's Bellstaff.

"No, Hamish. You didn't, love. Look at them. They're not even bent or tattered." Frowning when he could feel Hamish was still sniffling and crying against him, Sherlock stood, taking the little boy with him, and began gently bouncing up and down, ignoring the numerous stares and sympathetic glances they were receiving. "This isn't like you, Hamish... What's wrong, hmm?"

"I nots does know, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, taking several quick, gasp-like breaths. "I is 'set." 

"Well... Come now, love. You're all right," Sherlock continued to soothe. "Everything is all right... Yes?"

Sniffling, Hamish nodded feebly against his father's shoulder. "'Kay, Daddy. I is sorry."

"No, Hamish. You've nothing to be sorry for. Everyone has accidents, and as yours go, it was very minor," Sherlock chuckled half-heartedly and with a reassuring smile. "Yes? I'm just sorry you're so upset over it." 

"It is 'kay, Daddy..." Heaving several deep breaths, Hamish's cries eventually subsided. The little boy remained in his father's arms, however, leaning his full weight against the detective's grounding figure. "I has ah walk?" he asked with a sniffle, wiping at his wet eyes with a sniffle. 

"Only if you want to, Hamish."

"... No. I sit 'ease," the little boy concluded, now sounding rather confused, as if he too, couldn't understand why he'd reacted the way he had. 

"Right." After several more rubs to his son's back, and kisses to his cheeks, Sherlock set Hamish in the trolley seat, assessing the little boy while he got situated. Other than the tears still wet on his cheeks, he seemed fine; no injuries, no external signs of illness. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked again, wiping away the tears on his son's cheeks with a thumb. 

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish reassured. "I is be 'kay." 

"Right... Sure?"

The little boy managed a small smile. "'Es, Daddy. I is good now."

"All right... Now all we need is some sodium chloride and then we should be set to go."

"What is, Daddy?"

"Salt," Sherlock chuckled fondly. Glad that Hamish now seemed far more calm, the detective started pushing the trolley towards the aisle they needed. He nearly paused, however, upon feeling as one Hamish's hands settled atop his own, feeling several of his small fingers wrapping around his own. 

"Salt, Daddy?"

"Mmm. Indeed," Sherlock murmured with a smile, twisting his hand in one quick move, effectively encasing his son's small hand on his own. "Off we go."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Would you be so kind as to carry this for me?" Sherlock asked as the cab rolled up outside of 221B. The detective passed Hamish, who was desperately trying to undo his seatbelt, a box of cereal.

"Oh. Help, Daddy?"

"If you would."

"Oh! 'Es!" Seatbelt forgotten, the little boy made an eager grab for the item.

"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled with a smile. The rest of the shopping in hand, the detective leaned over and unbuckled his son's belt. 

"Tank-su, Daddy."

"You're very welcome, love."

Soon, both father and son had managed to exit the cab with their shopping bags and had entered the flat. Having seemed to recover from the ordeal at the store, Hamish hopped contently up each of the steps with the cereal box, grunting in effort with each jump. "Come, Daddy!" he squealed, dashing into the kitchen. "Has ah spearment!"

"Quite right we do," Sherlock agreed with a chuckle, glad to see his son appeared to have returned to his normal, bubbly little self. "But we mustn't tell John, right?" he added in a loud whisper.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy. Shush."

"Exactly." 

Now giggling at the prospect of keeping a secret, Hamish hugged the cereal box close and watched as Sherlock set the bags of shopping on the kitchen table. "Spearment, Daddy?"

Smiling, Sherlock knelt down next to Hamish, a sly smile on his lips. "An experiment," he agreed, suddenly hugging his little son close.

"Oh!" Hamish gasped as he was pulled into the sudden embrace. "Is 'kay, Daddy?" he asked quietly, gently tapping the detective on the shoulder.

"I'm perfect, Hamish. I just love you very much... And sometimes that sort of... spills over into this." Laughing when it was clear he'd just confused his son, the detective merely pressed a kiss to the little boy's cheek and then pulled away. "Now, then! We've some samples to test!" 

"Spearment!" 

Sherlock smiled, a playful glint in his eyes. "Experiment."


	55. The Real Doctor

"Daddy?" Hamish whispered worriedly as he prodded at his father's sharp cheekbone with a single tiny finger.

Sherlock, having been completely immersed in his musings awoke with a small jolt on the couch. "Hamish?" he murmured, letting his steepled fingers slide from his lips. "What is it?" 

"John be, Daddy."

Sherlock frowned. "John?"

Hamish nodded his head solemnly. "'Es, Daddy."

Sherlock's features tensed as he understood. "Do you want to come?" he asked, knowing Hamish usually preferred to be confined in the safety of his room during a "bad John nigh'" as the little boy had so dubbed these instances. 

"I come, Daddy," Hamish whispered with a small voice.

"Right, then." Smiling sadly, Sherlock wrapped his hand around his son's little one and padded toward the stairs. 

Stopping, Hamish tugged at his father's hand. "Up, Daddy," he stated with a frown, gazing down the stairs. 

"Of course." With a sad smile, Sherlock hoisted Hamish's little form onto his hip. The detective began to descend the stairs to John's room, aw are that Hamish had draped several of his tiny fingers over his index finger and was gripping tightly. "Alright?" he asked gently, a hand on John's doorknob. Hamish nodded silently. "Alright." Sherlock flicked his wrist, opening the door to his flat mate's room. He could hear John's shallow, hurried breaths. "How about you stay here?" the detective murmured as he set Hamish on the ground near the door. 

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy barely whispered as he gazed warily at John's tossing and turning form. 

"It's alright," Sherlock reassured. The detective gently pat his little son on the back and then padded over to his flat mate's bed. He sat down on the edge, throwing a reassuring smile Hamish's way when he heard a whine emit from Hamish's direction. Heaving a silent sigh, Sherlock turned his attention back to his flat mate and placed a gentle hand on the doctor's shoulder. "John," he murmured gently, not wishing to startle the doctor any more than was necessary. The detective frowned sadly when John jolted awake with a loud intake of breath. 

"Mar... Hm... Sher... Sherlock?" the doctor managed in between deep breaths.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered with a simple nod of his head. "You were having a dream."

John chuckled dryly and without humor. "Yeah." Heaving several deep breaths, the doctor ran his fingers through his sandy hair, attempting to calm himself down.

Sherlock sat and waited patiently, expression solemn but guarded.

Having slowed his breaths, John allowed his hands to slide from his short hair. They landed in his lap with a muffled thud. "God I miss her," the doctor whispered, voice catching just slightly. A sob rising in his chest, John allowed his head to loll to the side, not even bothering to move when it landed atop his flat mate's shoulder.

Sherlock froze in place and flicked his gaze back toward the doorway. Hamish, who had plopped his little self on the ground, was gazing intently toward them, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the wooden floor. The detective quirked his lips reassuringly before turning his attention back to his flat mate. "I know," was all he could think to say. With the unique awkwardness of a Holmes, Sherlock placed a hand atop his flat mate's shoulder and gave his slender fingers a gentle squeeze. "I am sorry, John."

The doctor sniffled and lifted his head. "Yeah. I know you are," he whispered as he wiped at his nose. "Thanks, mate." John managed a weak smile. His gaze flicked towards the doorway and the smile slipped from his lips. "Oh. Hame—why—" Wiping hastily at his wet eyes, John quickly tried to compose himself. 

Nearly tripping over himself in the process, Hamish stood up and, after looking to his father for confirmation, toddled towards the bed. "Up 'ease, Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly as he attempted to scramble onto the bed. 

"Of course." Sliding off his flat mate's bed, Sherlock hoisted Hamish up and then set him next to John.

"Tank-su, Daddy." 

"You're welcome, love." 

Hamish turned his attention away from his father to John, who was gazing intently at him, a rather melancholy expression pulling at his features. "Hey, Hame."

The little boy heaved an airy sigh. "He'o, John. Dids have ah bads dream."

"Yeah, I know... I'm sorry I woke you up, little man."

"It is 'kay, John. I did hear."

A chuckle. "Yeah, I know."

"... I is sorry, John."

The doctor turned a watery gaze to his little flat mate. "You're so precious," he whispered, pulling Hamish close to his chest. 

'Oh," the little boy gasped against John's clothed chest, not having expected the embrace. "Is 'kay, John?"

"Yeah," the doctor sniffled as he released Hamish from his grasp. "Thanks, little man." 

"Is welc'min, John," Hamish whispered as he snuggled against the doctor's chest. "I does 'ove." 

Smile wavering as he once again began to cry, John pressed a kiss to his flat mate's curls while simultaneously patting his bare back.

Knowing it was time they left John to his thoughts, Sherlock walked over to the bed and gathered Hamish into his arms. "Come along, Hamish, love," the detective murmured with a hint of a smile. "Time to go back to bed." 

"'Kay." Releasing John's shirt from his grasp, Hamish crawled into his father's arms and wrapped his arms around the detective's neck. "Nigh' night, John," the little boy called quietly and with a tiny wave as he was carried to the doorway.

Sniffling, but with a smile, John returned the wave with a smile and one of his own. "Night-night, little man."

Smiling, Sherlock shut the door behind him.

"Good, Daddy?" Hamish asked with a little sigh as he settled his head against the space where Sherlock's neck met his shoulder.

"Very good, my love. Very good," the detective reassured with a smile. Sherlock set his hand atop Hamish's bare back and gave the smooth skin there a warm pat. "You did such a wonderful job in there. I'm very proud of you."

"Mmm. Tank-su, Daddy."

Having reached his son's room, Sherlock padded over to the tiny bed situated against the nearest wall, and knelt down, knowing Hamish preferred to crawl into bed on his own. "There you go." The detective set Hamish down and released his son from his grasp. 

With a little grunt, Hamish hoisted himself onto the tiny bed. "Tank-su, Daddy," he sighed quietly.

"You're quite welcome." With a bittersweet smile, Sherlock leaned forward and lifted the Thomas the Train Engine covers up, smiling when Hamish slotted his little self under them. "Good?"

"'Es, Daddy. Tuck?"

"It would be my pleasure." Sitting on the corner of his son's little bed, Sherlock carefully and gently tucked the blanket and covers around Hamish's form. "Satisfied?"

"'Es, Daddy. Is good."

"Excellent. Now. Try to get some more rest." Raising a playful brow, Sherlock pressed his lips to Hamish's temple.

"Daddy will?" 

"I'll try my best," the detective chuckled. "How's that sound?"

Hamish's eyes travelled up as he contemplated and then back down again. "'Kay."

Sherlock smiled his fond half-smile. "Excellent." The detective stood and made his way to the doorway. "Well, then. Goodnight, love. I'll be just downstairs, yes?"

Pulling the covers up under his chin, Hamish nodded his understanding.

"Very good, then.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

Clearly contemplating what he wished to say, Hamish kicked his little feet beneath the covers. "Daddy?" the little boy repeated.

Sherlock chuckled. "Hmm?" he rumbled with a quirk of his lips.

"John is be 'kay?"

The detective's smile softened. "No. Not at the moment," Sherlock replied softly. "But he will be. Don't worry... I promise." A smile. "Goodnight, Hamish. I love you. And trust me. John will be fine, love." With a reassuring smile, Sherlock clicked off the lights and shut the door behind him as he left. Treading softly, the detective grabbed his blue silk robe off the arm of the couch and wandered into the kitchen in search of food. "Oh. Hello," he greeted in mild surprise upon finding John seated at the kitchen table, sipping at a cup of freshly-made tea. 

"Mmm," John merely hummed in reply as he took another pensive sip while simultaneously rubbing at his tired eyes. "Can't sleep," the doctor mumbled as way of explanation.

"I assumed." Pouring himself a cup, Sherlock sat down next to his flat mate and twirled the teacup in his slender fingers. "Are you alright?" he asked seriously, deep voice rumbling around the dark flat. The detective watched as John, heaving a sigh, leaned back in his chair and took another sip of tea. "Yes, I think so," he answered eventually. "I just... I go through these periods of time where I miss her more than I feel my heart can possibly bear..." The doctor shrugged, eyeing a notch in the table. "And I do miss her so terribly much."

"Yes. I miss her as well. She was one of the few people in his world I genuinely enjoyed conversation with." 

Tears once again welling in his deep blue-green eyes, John laughed and a smile graced his worn features. "Yes. You did quite have that in common. And you both seemed to genuinely enjoy talking about me." 

"Well, there's much about you that deserved ridicule."

Once again, John laughed, wiping away at a few of the tears that had slid free. "This is how I like remembering her. Happy. Funny. Not as dead. Just gone." 

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "And she's not really, I suppose. Well. Of course she is gone literally; logic simply cannot argue that. But I do believe memories count for something."

"Of course they do." 

"And we certainly have many of those." Sherlock's gaze travelled to his friend was staring into his cup of tea, a small half-smile tugging at one corner of his lips.

"But I do miss her."

In an out-of-place act, the detective set his hand atop John's arm. "We all do," he murmured, gaze serious but no longer sad. 

With barely even a hint of sadness left, John patted his friend's hand and smiled.

 

 

 

 

Several days later, the trio of flat mates sat at the kitchen table, John reading that morning's newspaper, Sherlock peering into his microscope, and Hamish attempting to smear far too much jam onto a piece of toast.

Chuckling, John lowered his paper and scooted next to his little flat mate. "How about some help with that, yeah?" 

"No. I is 'kay, John."

"Sure?"

"'Es. I can do." Sticking his tongue out as he concentrated, Hamish grabbed a nearby spoon and proceeded to shove it into the nearly-empty strawberry jam jar. 

Rolling his eyes in a playful manner, John reached over Hamish—who was far too focused on scooping the jam out of the jar to notice—and grabbed the little boy's untouched piece of toast. The doctor then quickly fetched a knife and the new jar of jelly from the fridge that had been hidden in the back from Hamish. "There you go, little man," he chuckled as he returned to the table, spreading jam across the otherwise-plain toast.

"What, John? Oh." Eyes travelling between the jar in front of him , Hamish eventually resorted to abandoning the jam for the toast.

"Good man."

"Tank-su," Hamish giggled with a grin as he munched on the toast.

"You're very welcome."

"Does want, Daddy?"

Sherlock pulled his gaze away from his microscope to find Hamish was holding a piece of his nibbled toast towards him. "Oh." The detective smiled. Knowing better than to argue with his stubborn son, Sherlock leaned down and took a smile bite. "Thank you, Hamish." The detective's gaze fell to Hamish's positively filthy and nearly-naked form. "Oh my, you are quite dirty, aren't you?" Sherlock laughed, raising an amused brow. 

"What, Daddy... Oh," Hamish mumbled upon catching sight of himself. "I is a mess."

Both Sherlock and John laughed. "Yes," the detective murmured as returned to his microscope and adjusted the knobs. "Indeed you are. You'll need a bath once you're done."

Hamish agreed by nodding his head and munching at his toast.

 

 

 

 

 

"Time for ah bath, Daddy!" Hamish declared proudly once he had finished his breakfast. 

Sherlock, still seated at his microscope, once again pulled his eyes away from the lens. "Indeed it is! Come on, then. Off we go." Sliding out of his seat, the detective gestured towards his bedroom. 

"Oh! I go, Daddy!" 

Sherlock watched with a smile as Hamish toddled his little self out of the kitchen and around the corner. The detective could hear each of his son's little footfalls slapping quietly against the wooden floor. Smiling, the detective took off his suit jacket and placed it over the kitchen chair before he, too, padded into the bathroom. 

"He'o, Daddy!" Hamish declared from where he was standing near the shower door. 

"Well hello there," Sherlock chuckled, leaning against the doorway. "Have we decided to take a shower today, then?" 

"'Es!" 

Sherlock's lips quirked at the corners. "Oh?"

"'Ep. I wants ah try."

Eyes traveling up as he contemplated, Sherlock padded into the bathroom and grabbed several towels. "I suppose we could try that," he chuckled eventually.

With gasping laughs, Hamish bounced up and down on his chubby legs.

Towels in hand, Sherlock padded over to the shower and pushed back the curtain. "How about I just sit out here while you have a wash, hmm?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

Setting the towels out on the bathroom floor, Sherlock opened the shower curtain just enough to switch the shower head onto its lowest setting. "Right." The detective turned around to face Hamish. "Ready?"

"'Es!" the little boy declared proudly. "I is ready, Daddy."

"Excellent. After quickly checking the temperature of the weak stream of water, Sherlock pulled off his son's pull-up and then set him in the back of the shower. "Good?"

Vibrating with excitement, Hamish merely nodded before inching towards the water.

Sherlock watched in mild amusement at how intrigued and utterly enthralled his son was. For a moment, the detective longed to see into Hamish's mind; to understanding what thoughts ran through his head each day.

"Look, Daddy!" Hamish squealed in delight as he stuck his small hands above his head, catching small puddles of water in his hand. Sherlock merely chuckled and, lips twitching into a fond half-smile, fetched the soap bottle and, seeing how Hamish was currently distracted, began to scrub the jam from his little form.

"How is it you always manage to get so filthy?" 

Giggling, Hamish merely shrugged before continuing to play in the stream of water. 

 

 

 

 

 

"Alright, Hamish. Time to get out, love."

"Oh. Done, Daddy?"

"Indeed." A towel in hand, Sherlock reached into the shower and switched off the water. "My apologies," he chuckled towards his scowling son, "but I'm afraid I need to get back to work." Knowing an argument would soon be coming, the detective quickly wrapped the towel around Hamish and pulled the little boy into his arms with a chuckle. 

"Oof! Not nice, Daddy," Hamish mumbled with a frown as he attempted to squirm out of his father's hold, quite displeased at having been removed from the shower.

Playfully rolling his eyes, Sherlock set his towel-clad son down on his bed. "There. Better?"

A huff. "'Es. 'Etter, Daddy."

"Ah. Good." Attempting to conceal his amused smile, Sherlock watched as Hamish situated the towel to his liking. 

Heaving an airy sigh, as if what he'd just done was incredibly taxing, the little boy swung his legs off the edge of Sherlock's bed. "Daddy?" he asked suddenly as he swung his little legs back and forth.

"Hmm?" 

"Can I asks ah question?"

Sobering, Sherlock took a seat next to his small son on the bed. "Always, Hamish."

Twiddling with the edge of the large towel he was wrapped in, Hamish's bottom lip protruded slightly. "Does... does Daddy 'ove John?" he managed eventually and in a small voice. "An' does John 'ove Daddy?"

Exhaling, Sherlock gazed down at Hamish and a small smile graced his lips. "Well... I suppose that depends on what kind of love you are talking about... Oh." Realizing that Hamish was speaking of a more basic love than he was about to explain, Sherlock scooted closer to his son's form and ran several fingers through his wet curls. "Yes," the detective stated plainly. "I suppose in a way you could say we do. John is—quite frankly—my only true friend. So our love is based on our friendship. And I would imagine John feels quite the same. We... Well, we are very close, yes. We've been through quite a lot together." Sherlock's silvery gaze travelled back to Hamish, who seemed to processing. "And then there's you."

"What, Daddy?"

"Well... You've formed a bond between the two of us. We both have a mutual love for you, so I suppose in a way that also strengthens our friendship. But for the kind of love you would be referring to, you could very well say that we do have a mutual feeling towards each other... You've made us a family, Hamish." 

"So... Daddy does 'ove John?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, Hamish."

Quite content with this answer, a small half-smile danced over Hamish's lips. "We does have a good fam'wy," the little boy sighed contently with a firm nod of his head. No longer fiddling with the towel, Hamish allowed his head to loll to the side so it was resting against Sherlock's arm. "'Es," he concluded, snuggling against his father's reassuring form. "We does have."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose we do. Hmm." Once again amazed by his young son, Sherlock wrapped a slender arm around Hamish's wet form and hugged him close. "You are quite brilliant, my love," the detective murmured, pressing a kiss to his son's temple. 

"Hmm," Hamish hummed with a smile. "'Kay, Daddy... I go tell John," the little boy concluded with a serious nod of his head. A precious smile on his lips, Hamish quickly crawled atop his father's legs and, situating a hand on either side of the detective's sharp cheeks, planted a tender kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Kisses," he whispered.

"Kisses," Sherlock agreed softly as he studied his son's features. 

"Mmm." Releasing his father from his grasp, Hamish slid from the detective's lap, not bothering to bring his towel. "'Kay! We go tell John, Daddy!" the little boy called behind him as he toddled off.

Chuckling after his son's retreating and very naked form, Sherlock grabbed the discarded towel and headed after him. The detective could hear John's laughs floating in from the kitchen and soon the doctor's form appeared, Hamish settled in his arms. "I do believe he's forgotten something," the doctor chuckled, sharing a smile with his flat mate.

"Indeed he has. Did you tell John what you did, Hamish?"

A gasp. "Oh! John I tooks a big-boy bathtime!"

The doctor gasped. "Did you really now?" Keeping Hamish settled safely in his arms, John mouthed, "I'll get him dressed," to his smiling flat mate. 

Flashing a grateful smile, Sherlock playfully tickled his son's bare belly when he was toted past by John and then sat back down at his microscope. The detective hummed contently as he heard Hamish's animated voice float its way down the stairs. Shaking his head in a fond manner, Sherlock returned to his microscope, listening to the sound of his son's joyous conversation. "I quite agree," he murmured suddenly and to no one in particular. "We do have quite a good family, Hamish."


	56. Toby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I know it's been quite a long while since my last update, and I'm afraid I have no excuse except for writer's block! Please forgive me! But I'm hoping to get back on track with updates soon! In the meantime, bear with me.
> 
> Thank you everyone! I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and New Year! Thank you so much for your continued support! Enjoy!

John returned home from a particularly dull day at work to find the flat completely silent, save for the muffled sounds of Mrs. Hudson bustling around downstairs. Brows tugging worriedly together, as silence always indicated something was wrong, the doctor hurried up the rest of the steps into the flat, quickly ducking his head inside the kitchen as he went. Just as he was about to call out, however, John saw the briefest of movements out of the corner of his eyes. The doctor padded into the sitting room to find Sherlock, sitting absolutely still on the couch, palms together and pressed against his lips.

Frowning, as his flat mate clearly seemed to be concentrating on something, John turned his head, following the detective's gaze. "Oh no. No. No!"

"Oh yes," Sherlock murmured, eyes still intense as he gazed forward.

"Sherlock, why the bloody hell is there a cat in our sitting room?" John asked with a frustrated gesture towards said animal, which had taken refuge on his chair. The cat in question sat perched on his hind legs, tail flicking lazily back and forth as he gazed back at Sherlock. John vaguely wondered how long the two had been glaring at each other.

"An experiment," Sherlock replied, dropping his hands.

Pressing his lips into a firm line, John held his breath, certain his face had begun to turn pink. "What?"

"For the latest case," Sherlock continued in a murmur, clearly deep in thought. "Lestrade just dropped it off. I need it to solve the case."

"It? Does the bloody animal not have a name?" The doctor quickly silenced himself upon receiving a positively icy glare from his flat mate, which clearly stated, Why on earth would I waste my precious time with something so trivial as the bloody cat's name? "Right... Well, where's Hamish then, has he seen it?" John corrected, blurring two questions into one.

"Napping upstairs. No."

"Right..." Pursing his lips as he gazed at the cat, who, a magnificent shade of grey, had spun around on his chair twice before lying down and closing his eyes. "Charming."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed in agreement, raising a disdainful brow at the resting animal. "My sentiments exactly..."

"So how long do we think the cat's going to be staying?"

"Two days."

"Two? Two days?" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air.

Standing, Sherlock glared at John, pulling off his suit jacket. "Don't think I'm any happier about it!" the detective retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "But two is the time I will need to run the proper amount of tests to solve the current case I'm working on. And I believe the cat has the answer. It seems you should appreciate such a thing, seeing as you're always complaining about my lack of enthusiasm for solving cases in a timely manner." The detective gestured frustratedly towards the cat. "Well, I'm now trying, John!" Sherlock soon felt all frustration evaporate from his veins upon hearing a little voice behind John.

"Daddy? Johns? Why is ups-met?"

Checking his watch, Sherlock nodded to himself; Hamish was right on schedule. Nodding apologetically to John for his outburst, the detective gently brushed past the doctor and made his way onto the landing where Hamish sat on one of the steps, rubbing at his eyes. "Hello, love," Sherlock murmured, kneeling in front of his little son. "Did you have a good sleep?"

Hamish nodded with a yawn.

"Good," Sherlock chuckled, a warm smile gracing his lips. "Right, then..." The detective shared a glance with John, who rolled his eyes and then nodded. "Hamish, John and I need to show you something, alright?"

Frowning, and as he had not fully woken yet, Hamish squinted at his father with tired eyes. "What's is?" he asked, standing up on rather wobbly legs.

Chuckling, Sherlock offered a steadying hand, smiling when the little boy eagerly took it. "May I pick you up?" the detective asked, as Hamish would occasionally become quite offended if, right after a nap, he was asked if he wanted to be picked up. This time, however, the little boy nodded his consent. "Very good, then." Wrapping his hands around either side of his son's tiny middle, Sherlock lifted Hamish off the step and settled him against his chest.

"Hmm." Humming contently, Hamish watched with bleary eyes as he was carried into the sitting room. The little boy waved with a few fingers to John as they passed him in the entryway.

"Hello, little man," the doctor replied with a smile.

"He'o..."

Now in the sitting room and gazing at the resting cat, Sherlock raised a brow and then turned his attention to his tired son. "Hamish?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"For the next few days, we're going to be having a um... guest, of sorts." Clearing his throat, Sherlock simply patted Hamish on the back and then nodded to John's chair.

Brows furrowing in confusion, the little boy lifted his head and looked to where his father had nodded.

Sherlock's lips pressed together upon feeling Hamish's form tense in his arms.

"Daddy," the little boy began, a frown nearly creasing his features, "what is?"

"That," Sherlock replied, "is Toby." The detective glanced to his left upon hearing a sound of irritation from John.

"I thought you didn't know the cat's name!" the doctor exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

"It was in the file."

"And you couldn't think of it earlier? When I asked?"

"It wasn't relevant earlier," Sherlock replied with a dithering look before turning his attention back to Hamish, whose expression of confusion had now changed to one of curiosity.

"Toby," the little boy repeated, fingers curling where they were resting against his father's chest. "What is, Daddy?"

"He's a cat," Sherlock replied with a fond quirk of his lips.

Green eyes soon filling with excitement, Hamish bounced up and down in Sherlock's arms. "I cans see, Daddy? Is nice?"

"Well..." Keeping a watchful eye on Toby, who, amid all the excitement had awoken and hopped off John's chair, Sherlock pressed his lips together, contemplating. The detective dared a glance at his little son, feeling his resolve begin to break upon seeing the pleading excitement in Hamish's eyes. He heaved a playful sigh. "Oh, fine. But Hamish... I need you to listen very closely, alright?"

Eyes wide, Hamish nodded his understanding.

"Excellent." Settling a protective hand on his sons' back, Sherlock crouched down and pointed towards the cat, who seemed to be gazing curiously at Hamish. "I don't want you to touch the cat, alright? Cats are not known for their compassion, and they are certainly not known for their kind nor safe behaviour around children. Do you..." Fingers curling cautiously against his son's little back, Sherlock watched with careful eyes as the cat sauntered towards them, tail up, green eyes clearly curious.

"What's I do, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, clearly panicking.

"It's alright. I'm just here, Hamish," Sherlock reassured, eyes on the approaching animal. "Alright?"

Hamish just nodded, biting his lip as he stared frightfully at Toby.

Ready to snatch Hamish up and away, Sherlock's fingers tensed against his son's back. The detective's lips parted, however, as Toby, who had cleared the distance between them in a few quick trots, began to rub against Hamish's legs, purring loudly.

Frozen in his place, the little boy merely stood in the same spot, holding his hands out far from his body, as if something terrible would happen if he were to lower them.

Staring at the cat in confusion, his lips still parted, Sherlock also stood frozen in place, vaguely aware that John was laughing behind them.

"You two," the doctor chuckled, shaking his head as he padded into view. "It's just a cat." Kneeling down in front of his two still flat mates, John began to run his hand over the cat's back. "See, Hame? Would you like to pet it?"

The little boy shook his head back and forth in quick succession, eyes wide.

Laughing, John continued to stroke his fingers up and down the length of Toby's back. "It's okay. Here, give me your hand." The doctor loudly cleared his throat in an attempt to catch Sherlock's attention.

Still frowning at the cat, the detective blinked his attention to John, who gestured towards the cat. Understanding, Sherlock squinted briefly at the cat before reaching out and, following John's lead, began to pet him. "It's quite alright, Hamish. Perhaps this cat is the exception..."

"But dids say nots," Hamish replied breathily, still holding his arms out.

"I know I did," Sherlock murmured with a chuckle. "But this one seems to be nice... considering," the detective added with an eyeroll.

"Sherlock," John warned, raising a brow. Returning his attention to Hamish's rather stricken form, the doctor smiled warmly. "Hame?"

"Uhm… 'Es, John?"

"Listen... Do you hear that?" A nod. "That's called purring. Do you know what that means?" Hamish shook his head, brows tugging together. Smiling, John continued. "It means that Toby's happy. Purring is his way of telling you he likes what you're doing..."

Bottom lip protruding just slightly, Hamish turned his attention to Sherlock, who smiled encouragingly and nodded. "It's alright, love."

"Here... How about we try this?" Pulling the cat away from Hamish's legs, John continued to run his knuckles over Toby's head as he stood, keeping the animal in his arms.

Following suit, Sherlock pulled his son's still-rigid form into his arms and stood across from John. "Here." Opening his palm, the detective smiled reassuringly. "How about we have a go together, hmm?"

Nodding his agreement, Hamish placed his hand in his father's palm.

Smiling when he felt his son's hand in his own, Sherlock suddenly realized how utterly Hamish trusted him. The detective couldn't help but smile at the thought and, wrapping his son's fingers in his own, Sherlock reached forward, pressing both of their hands against Toby's soft fur. The detective nearly chuckled aloud upon hearing the gasp that escaped Hamish's lips.

"Is lots soft," the little boy murmured, carefully feeling Toby's grey fur with his chubby little fingers. "Mmm."

"Indeed," Sherlock hummed in agreement, a warm smile gracing his cupid's bow lips as he gently ran their hands up and down the length of Toby's spine. Moving slowly, the detective released his son's hand from his own, slowly pulling his fingers away one by one. "Very good job, Hamish," he murmured, pressing an encouraging kiss to his son's temple. Sherlock was vaguely aware that he'd begun rocking the two of them back and forth.

Suddenly giggling madly, as if at his own worry, Hamish removed his hands from Toby's fur and clapped them together. "Down, Daddy," the little boy declared in delight, tugging at his father's collar. "Oh, 'ease," he added quickly.

"Very well, then," Sherlock chuckled as he crouched down, indicating to John that he was to do the same. Releasing Hamish from his grasp, the detective chuckled when the little boy immediately plopped to the ground, his little legs splayed out in front of him. "Key!" he declared joyfully, reaching towards the cat John had just released.

"Kitty," the doctor corrected fondly.

"'Es, key!" Hamish repeated, too focused on Toby to realize his mistake.

Remaining crouched, Sherlock took a few steps back and watched carefully as Hamish, a positively joyful grin on his lips, began to haphazardly stoke his little fingers up and down the length of Toby's back.

"Ooh!" the little boy cried, fingers recoiling as the cat began to purr. Green eyes wide, the little boy turned back to John, who had joined Sherlock, and gasped, "Is doing ah purr, John!"

Laughing aloud, the doctor nodded. "Indeed he is, isn't it? Very good job, little man. Why don't you keep petting him, hmm?"

Nodding fervently, Hamish returned his gaze to the cat, who, clearly appreciating the attention, had rolled onto his side and was stretching his limbs out, which pulled several delighted giggles and claps from the little boy.

Smiling fondly at his little flat mate, John turned his attention to Sherlock, who was staring at the scene before him, gaze intense, fingers linked together. "Doing alright?" the doctor chuckled, clapping the detective on the shoulder.

Releasing a sigh, Sherlock nodded. "I didn't know Hamish liked animals."

John nodded his agreement before chuckling, "I don't think he did either." Deciding he would start some dinner, the doctor once again patted his flat mate on his shoulder before heading to the kitchen in search of food.

Pressing his palms against one another, Sherlock slid his steepled fingers up to his lips, gazing intently at his little son. The detective felt something flutter in his chest upon seeing the way Hamish was interacting with the other-wise stoic animal, eliciting such playful mannerisms. Sherlock knew he shouldn't be shocked that his son had surprised him yet again. But still, the detective found everything he still had to learn about Hamish positively incredible.

"Toby! Stops!" Hamish laughed as Toby stood and began to rub his grey form against the little boy's back. Pressing his small fingers to his face, as if to shield his cheeks from the cat's tail, Hamish continued to giggle madly at the ticklish feeling of Toby's fur against his skin. "Toby!" As the cat had done a complete circle around him as was once again sitting in front of him, Hamish reached forward and, with unusual gentility for a toddler, wrapped Toby's face in a hug.

Sherlock watched, lips parting just slightly, as his little son pressed his face against Toby's soft fur; the detective could see as each of his tiny fingers curled against the cat's ruff, holding him close. And suddenly, Sherlock wished they would keep the cat. If only to watch as utter delight filled his son's features; to watch the way the little boy clutched the unusually patient cat close...

A bittersweet smile causing his eyes to crinkle at the corners, Sherlock suddenly realized his gaze had begun to blur just slightly at the corners. Wiping hastily at his eyes, the detective glanced behind him to make sure John was not peering over his shoulder. With a single sniffle, Sherlock leaned forward and, after snapping several pictures of the precious sight in front of him, pressed a kiss to his son's temple. "Mmm. I love you, Hamish," he murmured, taking a hand and cradling the little boy's head against his chest for a few brief moments.

Toby still wrapped in his arms, Hamish hummed, content with his father's closeness. "I does 'ove, Daddy," the little boy replied, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Hmm." Smiling fondly, Sherlock pressed another kiss atop his son's curls and then, after releasing Hamish from his grasp, padded into the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Hamish, dinner!" John called from the kitchen, where, amidst the many experiments and lab equipment strewn about the table and counter, he had managed to find a place to set Hamish's plate of eggs and ham.

"Oh! I's coming!" came the little boy's muffled reply.

Sherlock, who was sat at his microscope, gaze frantically traveling back and forth between the slides and the notes he was scribbling, paused his musings to glance towards the entryway as he heard Hamish's approaching footfalls. The detective quite literally had to press the back of his hand to his mouth to prevent from laughing aloud as his little son toddled into view, a quiet unhappy-looking Toby clutched haphazardly in his arms.

"I has Toby!" Hamish declared proudly, struggling to keep the large cat in his grasp.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Sherlock slid off his stool and then knelt down in front of his little son. "Indeed you do," he chuckled, nodding towards the cat, which was now struggling desperately to get free. "But, as he cannot eat dinner with us, how about we let Toby go, hmm?"

"Oh. But… but what's will he do?"

Lips quirking apologetically to the side, Sherlock took Toby from his son's little arms with a slight grimace, and then stood. "Well, I'm afraid that since we don't really want Toby wandering around the flat without supervision, he's going to need to stay in a carrier," the detective explained as he led Hamish into the sitting room.

" Ah what, Daddy?" the little boy asked, not understanding.

"A carrier," Sherlock repeated, padding over to the other side of the couch, where a rather large animal carrier lay resting.

"Oh…" Frowning, Hamish toddled over to the cage and, with the tender curiosity of a Holmes, began to prod at its plastic walls. "Is much hard, Daddy," the little boy concluded after a thorough examination. "But is good."

Holding Toby away from him, Sherlock nodded his agreement before quickly tucking the cat inside the carrier. "Yes, it is. Oh." Rather suddenly realizing what his son had just said, the detective smiled and then playfully ruffled the little boy's curls. "That's a very excellent observation, Hamish. Very good job."

Grinning at the praise, Hamish toddled over to his father's legs and then buried his face in the detective's trousers, concealing a bashful smile. "Hm, Daddy," he giggled, small fingers holding fast to the fabric. "Hmm."

Sherlock watched as Hamish, still leaning against his legs, turned his gaze back the crate, the smile slowly sliding from his little lips.

"Is sad, Daddy," the little boy whispered suddenly, green eyes fixed on the carrier. "Is much sad."

Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock crouched down and settled a hand against his son's back, splaying his fingers over the skin. "Why's that?" he murmured gently, eyes steady as he gauged the little boy's facial expressions.

"Not does see nice, Daddy," Hamish explained with a one-shoulder shrug. "Is much smalls… 'An not is purr, Daddy," the little boy concluded, lips drawing down slightly at the corner.

"No," Sherlock agreed, silver eyes steady, voice just a murmur, "it doesn't seem very nice, does it? But he'll be alright, love."

"Prom'kiss?" Hamish asked, turning a teary-eyed gaze to his father's. "Does prom'kiss, Daddy?"

Smiling sadly, Sherlock nodded. "I promise. He'll be alright."

Nodding and with a sniffle, Hamish ran an arm under his nose. "I does like ah cat," he stated suddenly and with a single nod of his head.

Lips pressed into a fond grin, Sherlock wrapped his arm around Hamish's little form and then pulled the little boy into a hug. "Yes, I know you like the cat," he chuckled, pressing a kiss to his son's curls. "And you can see him after dinner, hmm?"

"I cans see, Daddy?" Hamish gasped suddenly, green eyes wide as he gazed up into Sherlock's grey ones.

"Well, yes of course," the detective replied with a chuckle. "Toby's going to be staying with us for two days," he exclaimed in an exaggerated fashion, eyes wide.

Mouth falling open, Hamish suddenly bounced up and down.

Sherlock watched with a fond gaze as the little boy pulled away from him and hurried over the carrier. The detective could hear as Hamish began to whisper to Toby through the metal grate.

"I's be back, 'kay? I has ah eat. But I's be back! Donts be sad ah'cause Daddy say is gon'sa stay! So is all good!" Bouncing up and down on his little legs, and with a grin on his lips, Hamish waved a goodbye to Toby with a few fingers before toddling back over to Sherlock. "I saids b-bye," the little boy whispered, as if such a thing was a secret. "An' I's be back."

Sherlock replied, grinning and also in a whisper, "Very good job, then, Hamish." The detective gently bopped his son on the nose before adding with a wink, "Now. May we go eat the eggs John has burned?"

Giggling madly into his hands, Hamish nodded, eyes squeezing shut as he laughed. "Not is nice, Daddy," he laughed, attempting to scold.

"I know." A fond grin on his lips, Sherlock Hamish into his arms and then toted him into the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Hamish, you must have your pajamas on before you play with Toby," Sherlock stated, a brow raised, as he stared down at a very wet and very naked Hamish, who, after making a mess at dinner, had required a bath.

Wet curls having flopped slightly into his eyes, Hamish grunted in frustration as he pushed the dripping hair away, scowling up at his father with as much malice as he could muster. "I nots wants ah jammies," he declared with a frown.

"Too bad." Noting the way the little boy was beginning to shiver, Sherlock snatched a towel and, before he had time to retort, had wrapped Hamish in it. "You need clothes," the detective continued, carrying a now very-grumpy Hamish out of the bathroom.

"No."

"Yes."

"Not 'ease."

"Yes, Hamish."

"I nots does like ah jammies!"

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock set Hamish on his bed, and then raised a brow in warning. "Which step would you care to sit on?" he asked, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Sobering, and wrapping his towel around his little form, Hamish scowled at the ground before mumbling, "'Kay. I has ah jammies."

"Uh-huh." Removing his hands from his pockets, Sherlock quickly fetched the train onesie Hamish had chosen and then raised a questioning brow. "Would you like me to put them on or do you not want help?" he asked, holding the fabric up.

"Can helps 'ease, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, bottom lip protruding just slightly.

A fond smile. "Of course," the detective murmured with a nod. "But you still need a bit more drying, hmm?"

Hamish hummed his agreement with a feeble nod.

"Oh, cheer up, love," Sherlock chuckled, grabbing another towel from the nearby bathroom. "I can assure you pajamas are not the worse thing to suffer through." The detective merely laughed at the scowl he received.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Sherlock?" John asked, padding into the kitchen.

"Hmm?"

"Did you put Hamish to bed yet?"

"What?"

"Did you put Hamish to bed yet?" the doctor repeated.

"No, why?"

"Listen."

Pulling his attention away from the microscope, Sherlock soon understood. Silence.

A frown on his lips, the detective left his spot at the kitchen table and hurried into the sitting room. "Oh…" Swallowing the lump that had quickly risen his throat, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief upon find Hamish, lying on his back, his little limbs splayed about, sound asleep on the middle of the sitting room floor, Toby curled against the curve of his middle. "They've fallen asleep," Sherlock whispered behind him to John, despite the fact that the doctor was also gazing at the scene.

A small smile twitching at the corner of his lips, Sherlock took several silent steps forward, not wishing to wake either Toby nor Hamish. Tilting his head so as to get a better view of his slumbering son, Sherlock's gaze softened, his grey eyes lightening. "Oh, my love," he whispered, staring at Hamish's little hands, curled into themselves. "We should probably move him, shouldn't we?" the detective asked, a bit regretfully.

Humming in agreement, John nodded. "Yeah, I suppose we probably should."

Yet neither flat mate made any attempt to do so.

"Why is it so intriguing?" Sherlock murmured after a few moments' silence.

"What's that?"

"Him. Watching him sleep, observing him? Why is it always so incredible?"

Smiling at his flat mate, John simply whispered, "Goodnight, Sherlock," before silently leaving the room.

Almost not wanting to separate his son from Toby, Sherlock crouched down and began to stroke a knuckle over the little boy's cheek. "Oh, Hamish," the detective whispered. "How I love you so…" Lips curving into a small smile, Sherlock took a single hand and brushed away the auburn curls residing on Hamish's forehead, so as to press a kiss to the skin beneath. Following the curve of one of his son's arms, the detective suddenly realized the little boy had a single hand buried in Toby's fur.

Smiling fondly, and with slow, gentle movements, Sherlock managed to detach Hamish's hand from Toby. The detective then scooped the little boy into his arms in one fluid movement. And, suddenly reminded of the time when Hamish was small enough to fit against the curve of his chest, Sherlock merely held the little boy close, gently swaying back and forth in the darkness.

Stroking a few fingertips through his son's auburn curls, Sherlock eventually heaved a sigh, knowing it was time he took Hamish up to bed. Cradling the little boy's slumbering form close, the detective glanced down to the cat. "I still don't like you," he muttered softly, but not quite able to muster a scowl.

As if his "scolding radar" was still on, even during sleep, Hamish shifted slightly in his father's arms. "Mmm."

Rolling his eyes and chuckling, Sherlock pressed a kiss to his son's temple and, before carrying the little boy upstairs, whispered, "My apologies, love… Though I still don't like the cat."


	57. A New Home and A New Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been quite a long while since I've last updated, and—as I now say every time I post—I am truly sorry for all of you who have been following my story and waiting so patently for me to update. So! In an attempt to make it up to you, I have written a chapter so stuffed full of fluffy, cuddling goodness that I hope it can begin to make up for my being a terrible updater.
> 
> So, with that said, I want to send out a HUGE thank you to everyone who is still there, still reading, and still following little Hamish. I love this story, and these characters, I truly do. Sometimes life gets in the way, and I just lack motivation. But all of you have been so impossibly kind and incredibly encouraging, and to have such wonderful followers is amazing. So: THANK YOU EVERYONE! I love each and every one of you! =)
> 
> Now please prepare to throw up from all the fluffy goodness in the chapter.

The next morning, Sherlock awoke and padded into the sitting room to find Hamish, still clothed in his onesie, sitting nearly cross-legged in front of the carrier, gazing in at Toby.

Frowning, the detective took a seat next to his little son, and gazed into the carrier, wishing he could see the wonder Hamish obviously found in the cat. "How long have you been up?" he murmured, brushing away a few of his son's stray curls.

A shrug. "I nots know, Daddy," Hamish replied in a whisper, keeping his gaze fixed on Toby. "I likes ah cat."

Smiling fondly, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I know you like the cat… Though I must admit, I do not understand your fascination."

"Mah what, Daddy?"

"Nevermind," Sherlock chuckled. "Are you not hungry, then?"

Finally tearing his eyes away from the anomaly in 221B that had become Toby, Hamish seemed to catch sight of his father for the first time.

Sherlock's brows furrowed slightly when the little boy suddenly bursted into a fit of bell-like giggles. "What?" he asked, glancing around him to see if John had managed to sneak up on them. "What's so funny?"

"Is lots messy, Daddy!"

"What is?" Sherlock asked confusedly.

Pressing his lips together in an attempt to contain his laughing, Hamish, cheeks turning pink, pointed a single finger towards his father's head.

Frowning confusedly, Sherlock stood up and then glanced in the mirror above the mantle. Rolling his eyes in fond understanding, the detective chuckled. "Ah. I see. Messy hair. I'll just fix it, then."

"No, Daddy. I cans!"

A chuckle. "If you wish." Once again lowering himself onto the ground, Sherlock crossed his legs and then pulled Hamish onto his lap. With a tiny grunt, the little boy clamored onto his father's lap, slipping slightly on the fabric of the detective's pajama bottoms. "I've go you," Sherlock assured with a warm twitch of his lips, keeping Hamish—and his onesie-clad feet—steady by holding him under the armpits.

Mouth falling open and tongue falling out as he concentrated on staying upright, little Hamish finally found himself situated. "'Kay. I gots it." Worrying his bottom lip as he concentrated, the little boy took two chubby hands and then pressed them flat over Sherlock's head, effectively smoothing out the unruly curls residing there.

"Did you get them?"

"'Ep, Daddy! I gots 'tem!"

"Excellent. Thank you very much, love."

"Is lots velcom'in, Daddy." Tiny chest puffed out with pride, Hamish, having clearly decided crawling off his father's lap would simply take too much effort, plopped down between the detective's crossed legs and then turned around to once again gaze at Toby. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"What's will happ-men ah Toby?"

"Oh. Well… I'm not…"

"Toby needs ah fam'lwy," Hamish whispered with a content smile as he gazed at the cat. "Ah goods one. Likes we have."

Silverly gaze flicking down to study his son, Sherlock suddenly wrapped an arm around the little boy's middle and then hugged him close. "Yes, I suppose he does, doesn't he?"

"Daddy, squeez-ming lots tight!" Hamish exclaimed with a laugh as he attempted to squirm out of Sherlock's tight hold.

"Sorry." With a fond smile, the detective removed his arm.

"Is 'kay, Daddy. Cans take Toby out now?"

"Well…" Shooting the lazy cat in question a dithering look, Sherlock pursed his lips and then bargained, "How about we get some breakfast first. And then you can see Toby, yes?"

"Oh!" Clamoring out of his father's lap, Hamish stood and then nodded his agreement. "What's be?"

"Oh. Right." As John was usually the one who made breakfast, Sherlock frowned. "Well, I suppose we should go see what we have."

"We has eggs, Daddy," Hamish suggested matter-of-factly and with a quirk of his lips that so incredibly resembled his father.

Muscles pulling together to form a look of both confusion and amusement, Sherlock stood and then placed his hands on his hips. "How do you know that, Hamish?" he asked, genuinely curious, but suspecting he knew the answer none-the-less.

"I did sees them."

A proud smile graced Sherlock's lips. "Right. Of course you did." Chuckling when Hamish seemed to scowl confusedly up at him, the detective laughed. "Come along, you clever boy. We'll get you some eggs."

"And then I sees Toby?"

Sherlock nodded. "And then you'll see Toby."

"'Kay. Good."

Smiling at his rather adorable son, Sherlock offered a hand, which the little boy gladly accepted. Leading Hamish into the kitchen, Sherlock hoisted the little boy onto his hip and then opened the fridge. "Let's see… eggs. Eggs… Ah. Here we are." The detective pulled out the carton.

"I cans help cook ah eggs, Daddy?"

"Oh. Well, I don't see why not. But can you do something for me first?" Hamish nodded eagerly. "Excellent. I need you to go wake John up for me. Can you do that?" A firm nod. "Very good. Off you go, then. Oh! And Hamish?"

"Hmm?"

"John might wake more quickly if you jab him just a bit in the face, alright?"

"oh. Uh-kay, Daddy." A content smile on his lips, famish toddled out of view.

Smirking to himself, Sherlock pulled out a bowl, a whisk, and two eggs. Several moments later, the detective heard the sound of John's heavy footsteps, soon followed by Hamish's much lighter ones. Sensing the doctor's irritated form behind him, Sherlock taunted, "Did you have a good sleep, then, John?"

"Ask Hamish."

Frowning, as this was not the response he was anticipating, Sherlock turned around to find Hamish holding John's hand and glaring up at him. "What…"

"Not was nice, Daddy. John say was mean." Bottom lip sticking out as far as his mouth would allow it, Hamish stomped forward, tugging John behind him. "Now say is… Oh." Suddenly whispering, as if to prevent Sherlock from hearing him, Hamish gestured that he needed to whisper something to John. "What is the ah word?" he asked loudly once the doctor had bent down.

Smiling, John whispered his response.

"Oh! 'Es!" Now returning his voice to normal, Hamish continued. "Now 'ease must say 'pologies."

Mouth going slightly slack and his lips parting just slight, Sherlock squinted his eyes ever so slightly and turned an icy gaze to John. "My… apologies... John," the detective added with a sigh, releasing a steady, rather annoyed breath through his nose. Features softening as he turned his attention back to Hamish, Sherlock raised his brows in silent question. "Hmm?"

"'Kay. Much 'etter. Tanks you."

Eyes glowing with a fondness his expression was attempting to conceal, Sherlock nodded simply. "Right. Do you still want to help?"

"'Es 'ease."

"Very well. You can crack the eggs for me."

Green eyes brightening with excitement, Hamish nodded eagerly, and then outstretched his arms. "Up?"

Obliging, Sherlock hoisted the little boy onto his hip and then placed him on the counter next to the materials. Plucking an egg from the cardboard carton, the detective handed it to Hamish and then instructed him on how he needed to hit it gently against the side of the bowl. "Gently, now. If you squeeze too hard, it might break."

"Oh. Uh-kay, Daddy." Handling the egg with as much tenderness as his chubby little fingers would allow, Hamish—with a little more force than was necessary—tapped the egg to the side of the bowl, nearly gasping when it cracked. "Uh-oh."

"No," Sherlock chuckled, taking the egg from his son's hands. "That's what we want. See?" Finishing off what Hamish had started, the detective cracked the egg fully and then let the yolk fall into the bowl. "Here. Try again." Sherlock handed Hamish another egg.

"Tanks you."

"Excellent manners, Hame," John praised from the other side of kitchen where he was making a pot of coffee.

Grinning proudly, Hamish once again handled the egg delicately in his fingers and then cracked it on the side of the bowl. The little boy released a tiny huff of frustrated air when the egg didn't break.

"It's alright," Sherlock urged. "Just try it again."

"'Kay." Sticking his tongue out as his concentrated, Hamish once again tapped the egg to the side of the bowl. "Ah-ha!," he cried triumphantly when the egg broke apart, sending bits of shell and yolk flying this way and that. "Oh. Ew, Daddy."

Wiping a bit of egg off his cheek, Sherlock grimaced and agreed. "Indeed."

"Do you do need some help over there?" John chuckled.

"No tanks you, John."

"Alright, little man. If you say so. Sherlock?" The doctor held up a cup of coffee.

"Please," Sherlock answered as he took the leaking egg from Hamish's fingers and then quickly disposed of it. "Perhaps we still need a bit of practice, hmm?"

Hamish nodded his agreement.

Fetching another egg and his cup of coffee, Sherlock quickly cracked the ivory casing and then emptied the contents into the bowl. "Now to whisk," the detective murmured, taking an appreciative sip of his coffee. Setting the mug down, Sherlock handed Hamish the utensil. "Now. Very gentle, alright? Little movements." Sherlock indicated what Hamish was to do. The little boy nodded fervently.

With the tenderness of only Hamish Holmes, the little boy gently whisked t he eggs, taking special care not to splash any outside of the bowl.

His coffee now properly prepared, John leaned against the nearby counter, sipped his beverage, and watched the scene with a tender gaze.

"Excellent job, love." Taking the bowl containing the barely-whisked eggs from Hamish, Sherlock quickly finished the whisking, pulled out a pan and then transferred the eggs.

"I cans help?"

"Not with this bit, Hamish. I don't want you to get burned. Sorry, love."

"Oh. Is 'kay, Daddy… I can gets down now?"

"Oh. Certainly." Sherlock transferred the little boy from the counter to the ground.

"Tanks you."

"You're very welcome."

"… How longs it will take?" Hamish asked after a moment's pause.

Sherlock chuckled. "Just a few more minutes, Hamish."

"Uh-kay." Bouncing his legs ever so slightly, Hamish then hopped his way over to John and then indicated that he wished to be picked up. Obliging, the doctor pulled the little boy into his arms. "Hey there, little man," the doctor greeted warmly before taking a sip of his coffee.

"He'o… John?"

"Hmm?"

"What is?" Hamish pointed to the doctor's mug.

"Coffee."

"Oh. I can haves ah taste?"

"Oh, well… I don't think you'll… Here, how about you have a smell first?" The doctor placed the mug in front of Hamish's nose.

"Uh-kay." Inhaling deeply, Hamish suddenly coughed and then seemed to gag slightly. Scrambling out of the doctor's arms, the little boy promptly sat himself down on the kitchen linoleum and then rubbed fervently at his nose. "Much is yucky, John," he sighed, as if in exhaustion. "Ew."

Taking another sip, John chuckled while simultaneously nodding his agreement. "Sorry, little man. Maybe we'll just stick with juice and water, for now, yeah?'

Hamish hastily nodded his agreement. Wiping his nose with a finalizing flourish, as if to ensure all of the smell had been eradicated, the little boy then stood and toddled over to Sherlock. "Eggs is be done, Daddy?" he asked, tugging at the hem of the detective's trousers.

"Just about, love."

"Uh-kay." In preparation for the meal, Hamish tugged off his shirt, and then, with help from John, clambered into a kitchen chair.

"Alright. Done." Transferring the finished eggs into a bowl, Sherlock grabbed a fork and then placed the bowl in front of Hamish.

"Tanks you, Daddy."

"You're very welcome. Now, eat up."

"Wants some?" A piece of egg gripped perilously between his fingertips, Hamish outstretched a hand.

Sherlock declined with a chuckle.

"'Kay." The little boy turned his hand to the doctor. "John?"

Opening his mouth, the doctor accepted. "Mmm. Thank you, Hame. That was very nice you."

With a sweet, rather proud smile, Hamish returned to his food.

 

 

 

 

Despite the fact that Hamish and gotten more egg on the floor than in his mouth by the time breakfast was finished (and in record time, as the little boy was quite eager to once again play with Toby), Sherlock and John both praised Hamish for having made a genuine effort this go-around, and for making an attempt to clean up after himself.

"Now I cans see Toby?" the little boy asked excitedly while he was getting a thorough wipe-down from Sherlock.

"Just one more moment." Gently holding Hamish in place, Sherlock ran a wet wash cloth over the little boy's hands, wiping away any remnants of breakfast.

"Now?" Hamish cried once again, anxiously bouncing up and down.

With a fond smile, Sherlock stood, placed his hands on his hips and then nodded. "Now."

Arms curling up next to his face, as if because he just had so much excitement he didn't know what to do, Hamish bolted from the kitchen and back into the sitting room. "Oh. Daddy, I needs help. Cants get ah case open."

Exchanging a fond glance with John, Sherlock padded into the sitting room. "Just one moment, love. I'll help you." Kneeling down, and after shooting a quick scowl Toby's way, the detective unlocked the gate, thus setting the cat free.

With a gasp, Hamish lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the startled cat. "He'o, Toby!" the little boy sighed into the cat's ruff. "I did miss." The cat purred appreciatively in response.

"Daddy, I can goes an' play wif Toby?"

"Oh, I suppose," Sherlock sighed playfully and with a wink. "Just… be nice to him, alright? You must remember cat's can be a tad bit touchy, yes?"

"Uh-kay, Daddy." Nodding his head, Hamish toddled away, pausing every few steps to hoist Toby—who kept slipping—back into his arms.

Sherlock watched with a warm, fatherly gaze. "Are you quite content now, then?" he murmured, the smile clear in his voice.

"Mmm. Much, Daddy," Hamish sighed, once again hoisting poor Toby into his arms.

Crossing his own arms, Sherlock laughed. "Good. I'm glad." Keeping a watchful eye on Hamish and the cat, the detective sauntered over to John, who was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. "We can't keep the cat," he sighed, pressing his lips into a thin a line.

John gazed into his coffee. "Yep," he agreed softly.

"… I hate cats."

A smile. "Yeah. We know, Sherlock." Chuckling, John abandoned his lukewarm coffee and then, before exiting the kitchen, called behind him, "Going to get dressed. Be back down in a few… Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

A coy smile glanced across the doctor's lips. "Don't let him kill the cat."

 

 

 

 

As John had left for work, Sherlock had been staring at Hamish's little form for several hours, watching as the boy—also for several hours—played with and petted and snuggled Toby. Stupid bloody cat. Fingers pressed—almost painfully—against his lips, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, mentally preparing himself for the conversation he knew he needed to have. Steeling himself, the detective removed his steepled fingers and then settled them in his pockets. "Hamish?" he asked hesitantly and with a sigh.

Looking up from Toby, who was sleeping soundly in his arms, Hamish whispered, "'Es, Daddy?"

As his son's sea-green eyes seemed to bore into his own silver ones, Sherlock choked on his words. "Right. Yes… Indeed. Um…" Heaving a sigh, the detective ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his raven curls. "Listen, love." Tugging up his trousers as he knelt down in front of Hamish, Sherlock smiled sympathetically. "I'm afraid Toby cannot stay with us forever. He needs a new home… And I'm afraid, as I've carried out all of my experiments, it's time for us to let him live with someone else."

Tears suddenly welling in his eyes, the little boy hugged Toby closer. "But I likes Toby."

"I know. I know you do, Hamish. Which is why I've arranged for him to live close by," Sherlock explained hurriedly, anxiously wiping away a stray tear that had fallen free.

Eyes lightening just slightly at the idea of Toby remaining close by, Hamish sniffled and then ran a few chubby fingers through the cat's grey fur. "Close?"

Sherlock smiled warmly and then nodded. "Very close."

"I can see?"

"Yes, you'll be able to see him nearly anytime you want."

"Oh… Well, where is, Daddy?"

 

 

 

 

 

"No, no, Sherlock, I said I couldn't take in a cat because I'm allergic, remember? We did discuss it."

"Did we?" Sherlock asked, feigning confusion as he gently pushed his way into Molly's flat, Toby's cat carrier in hand.

Huffing a soft sigh, Molly's gaze travelled to the ceiling. "Yes, Sherlock. Several times. A few hours ago. On the phone."

"Oh, right, must have slipped my mind, apologies," the detective rambled quickly, gesturing that Hamish was to follow him in. "Come along, love."

Still rather sullen, Hamish padded into the pathologist's flat, eyes downcast. "He'o, Molly," he mumbled sadly, trailing behind Sherlock's taller form.

"Oh…" Brows tugging together to form a rather confused, but sorrowful expression, Molly watched as Hamish dejectedly plopped down next to Rose, who was now beginning to crawl.

"He'o, Baby Rose. Cans have Toby. Is much nice."

"Oh," Molly once again mumbled, the word just a squeak.

Gaze reflecting the sadness Molly's voice had just translated, Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Exactly." Setting the carrier down on the floor, the detective tucked his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff and watched as Hamish let Toby out of his cage. "So. Thoughts on the cat, then?"

Voice still just a soft squeak, Molly's gaze darted back and forth between Hamish's heartbroken form and Sherlock's equally-heartbroken expression. "Gosh darn you, Sherlock," the pathologist sighed, tweaking her vernacular for the younger ones in the room. "Why must you always do things like this?"

Knowing full well that he'd won, Sherlock smiled appreciatively and then, quite unsure what to do, clapped Molly on the shoulder. Which in turn earned him a glare. "Right. Apologies." The detective then, more sincerely, thanked the pathologist. "Thank you, Molly. It means a lot that you are willing to do this. Both for me, and for Hamish."

Anger fading from her eyes as she glanced back at the little boy in question, who seemed to be saying his goodbyes to Toby, Molly nodded. "It's fine. I'll just take allergy medication." A weak smile gracing her lips, the pathologist nodded at Sherlock and then padded over to Hamish and the cat. "Hello, darling."

"He'o, Molly. Is goings ah take Toby?"

"Yes, love, I am. He's going to live here with me and Rose. And you are more than welcome to visit him anytime you want," Molly assured, running a comforting hand up and down the length of the tiny boy's spine.

A sniffle. "Uh-kays… Molly?"

"Yes, love?"

"Will tell Toby I 'oves?"

Molly smiled. "Absolutely I will."

"E'ry day?"

"Each and every day. Promise."

"I 'tinks I has ah go now." Tears once again welling in his eyes, Hamish hugged Toby close.

Eyes tinged with sadness, and practically filling with tears of his own, Sherlock watched as Hamish, quite clearly dejected by the situation, kept his little fingers buried in Toby's fur, as if refusing to let him go.

Internally rolling his eyes at what he knew he was about to do, Sherlock quietly excused himself from the room and then pulled out his mobile and dialed a number.

"What?"

"Mycroft, I need you to do something for me."

 

 

 

"I does miss Toby," Hamish whimpered against Sherlock's chest as they rode home together, the little boy settled safely in his father's comforting and familiar arms. "Does miss lots."

"I know you do, little one. I know… I'm very sorry we couldn't keep him."

"Was ah good kitty."

Sherlock smiled, the movement bittersweet. "Yes, I suppose he was… You know, you will still be able to see him," the detective assured, smoothing a hand over Hamish's auburn curls.

"'Es, I does know… But does not fix."

"No," Sherlock murmured, setting his cheek atop the little boy's curls. "I suppose it doesn't." The detective frowned as Hamish moaned quietly against his chest, burying his tiny face in the folds of his jacket.

By the time the cab rolled up outside 221B, Hamish's saddened whimpers had stopped and the little boy merely clung to Sherlock's collar as the detective stepped out of the cab, hugging his son close. "We're home, Hamish."

"Mm-hmm," the little boy agreed sadly.

Smiling sorrowfully to himself, Sherlock opened the door to the flat with his free hand and began the descent up to their flat. "Hamish?"

"Hmm?"

"I know you're very upset about Toby, but… well, I'm hoping I can make it up to you."

A sniffle. Finally Hamish pulled his face from the detective's chest. "What, Daddy?"

"Well… I have rather a gift for you." Having reached the landing, Sherlock tugged gently on Hamish's little arm, indicating he was to turn around.

"What is, Daddy?"

"You'll see."

Frowning in confusion, Hamish turned around. "Unc'mel Myc?" he asked in confusion. "Is pres'ment?"

Sherlock chuckled and then set the little boy on the ground. "Not quite." The detective gently patted his son on the back, urging him forward. "Go on."

The frown still deeply set on his lips, Hamish took a step forward, clearly confused. "Does have ah pres'ment, Myc?" he asked.

"Indeed I do." A grin melting away his cold exterior, the government official—umbrella in hand—stepped aside to reveal an animal carrier.

Understanding soon dawning him, Hamish's jaw dropped and he turned around, eyes meeting his father's, as if to check and see if the situation was real.

A grin of his own dancing over his lips, Sherlock nodded eagerly and then urged again, "Why don't you see what's in there, hmm?"

Nodding fervently, Hamish rushed towards the cage, nearly tripping over himself in the process. "I needs help!" he cried upon realizing he would not be able to open the case.

One step ahead of his little son, Sherlock hurried over and clicked open the little latch. "I hope this makes up for everything," the detective hummed, already knowing the answer as he watched as Hamish caught sight of the contents of the cage.

No longer buzzing with excitement, but rather frozen still, Hamish's mouth once again fell open. "Daddy," he sighed in amazement and joy.

Once again grinning, Sherlock nodded, and then pulled his rather stricken son into his arms. "What do you see in there, Hamish? Hmm?"

A large and impossibly overjoyed smile lighting his features, Hamish suddenly burst into a fit of giggles. "Daddy! Myc!" he cried, eagerly reaching into the cage and pulling out the fluffy creature within. "A puppy!"


	58. New Addition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Please enjoy this fluffy update to make up for my being a sucky updater. =/
> 
> Also, I just wanted to let you all know that sometimes I miss notifications that you have commented on my story. So if I do not respond to you, please do not take offense; I promise I am not ignoring you! ;D I just don't always get notified when someone comments, which always bothers me, because it's very important to me to take the time to respond to as many reviews as I can. So, even if it may take me two years, I will try to eventually respond to your comments! I do love reading them and they provide such wonderful and reassuring encouragement, so thank you! =)
> 
> I hope you enjoy! And, as always, you all have my utmost respect and love for following this story as long and as diligently as you have!
> 
> P.S. Also, just for imagery purposes (this is more for me when I'm writing), I've imagined in my mind that Sherlock got Hamish a Jack Russell Terrier puppy. YOU are free to imagine whatever type of dog you want, but I just thought I would let you all know what kind of a dog I have in mind when I write about the little pup. =)

"A puppy!" Hamish gasped, tugging the tiny animal close. "A puppy! Oh, Daddy!"

Clearly quite surprised by such excitement, but enjoying it nonetheless, the tiny, tan and white-colored puppy eagerly licked one of Hamish's flushed cheeks. The little boy gasped at the sensation. "Is soft, Daddy! Not like Toby."

"You're quite right," Sherlock chuckled in agreement, "Toby's tongue is far more rough."

"Hmm." Cuddling the puppy close, Hamish rested his check against the side of the dog's face. Enjoying the warm and close contact, the puppy lapped at the little boy's nose, panting in happiness. "Tanks you, Daddy!"

"You're most welcome, Hamish. Though it's not really me you should be thanking. Your Uncle Mycroft is the one who got the little creature."

Hamish turned his gaze to the government official in question. "Did get?"

Mycroft nodded.

With a gasp and gulp of breath, Hamish stood and set the puppy on top of his father's shoes-much to the detective's rather obvious dismay. This went unnoticed, however, as Hamish then rushed over to Mycroft, who promptly lifted the little boy into his arms. "Tanks you, Uncle Myc," Hamish mumbled into the government' official's collar.

"You're most certainly welcome, my boy," Mycroft replied with a smile and a pat to the little boy's back.

After a few more moments of the embrace, however, Hamish mumbled, "Okay. I can get down now. Tanks you."

Mycroft obliged with a smile.

Now free of his Uncle's arms, Hamish hurried back over to the puppy. It appeared the little animal had attempted to follow Hamish when he'd left to hug Mycroft. As a result, Sherlock was now crouching down, holding the puppy in place with a single hand. "Well, we've got to think of a name for him, haven't we?" the detective asked, releasing the dog from his gentle grasp.

"Oh!" Hamish gasped, having just come to the same realization. "'Es..." Rather perplexed, Hamish, quite intensely thinking, sat down, barely noticing the puppy pawing at his arms. "I d'nt know, Daddy..."

"Well..." Sitting down and scooting closer, Sherlock petted the dog. "Maybe we'll have to think on it for a few days, and then it'll come to us, yes?"

Agreeing, Hamish stood and then passed the puppy to his father.

"Oh... Thank you," Sherlock answered, trying to hold the eager animal — and his tongue — away from his suit.

"Well, I'd best be off, I think," Mycroft sighed with a twirl of his cane. "You're all set, then?" he asked with the slightest hint of a smirk.

Lips quirking into an annoyed line, Sherlock rolled his eyes in assent. "Quite."

"Very well, then. Farewell, Hamish. Enjoy your new pet, lad. I'll see you quite soon, I'm sure."

"G-bye Uncle Myc." Abandoning his father with the puppy, Hamish toddled over to his uncle, wrapped his arms around the government official's legs, and then waved goodbye as he disappeared down the stairs.

Smiling down at his son, Sherlock pulled off his Belstaff and, after abandoning it on the couch, took a seat on the floor. "We'll need a name for the little guy, won't we?"

"Oh! 'Es, we 'ill..." Furrowing his brows together, Hamish absentmindedly patted the eager little puppy as he mused. "I dun't know, Daddy." A shrug.

"That's quite alright," the detective chuckled. "There's plenty of time for that."

"Oh. M'bye John can help... I can'ts wait until John come home," Hamish stated in delight, petting the puppy with chubby fingers.

Sherlock raised a brow. "I can, Hamish. I can most certainly wait."

 

 

 

"You bought him a puppy?"

"He was very upset about Toby, John," Sherlock huffed in explanation.

"Again. So you bought him a bloody puppy?"

Frown deepening, Sherlock scowled at his flat mate. "Why are you so upset?"

"Because, Sherlock, that is not how parenting works; when a child is upset over something, you don't just buy him something else to make up for it! That is what will teach him that if he throws fits, he'll get whatever he wants. In addition, our lifestyle is not conducive to a living animal, nor do we have the living space for a puppy! You know Mrs. Hudson doesn't allow pets."

"I've already planned for that," Sherlock explained hurriedly, brushing away John's comment with a wave of his fingers.

"Oh? And how's that exactly?" Eyebrows raised high and arms crossed over his chest, John's lips pressed into a thin line.

"None of your concern."

"Ah, ah, ah. Nope. Not doing that. Tell me."

A sigh. "I'm going to have Hamish do it," Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

Lips parting just slightly and brows stitching together, John raised his eyes to the ceiling and muttered, "Again?"

"Oh, you heard me!"

John chuckled humorlessly. "You're going to have Hamish guilt Mrs. Hudson into letting us keep the dog?"

"Well, it does sound a tad bit awful when you put it like that."

John shook his head. "You're absolutely, completely, bloody unbelievable!"

"Am I, though, John? I mean is this really so far-fetched for me?" Sherlock asked with a raised brow. "In fact, by your own allegations, this seems remarkably believable for me."

"And that's what's so ruddy ridiculous," John huffed.

 

 

 

It turned out that guilting Mrs. Hudson via Hamish was the perfect way to allow the little boy to keep the dog. After catching sight of Hamish cuddling the small animal—whose name had eventually been whittled down to Gladstone—the landlady had swayed, only upon stating that caring for the dog would never be her responsibility.

"Absolutely, Mrs. Hudson. I will personally tend to the dog," Sherlock promised with a warm smile.

 

 

 

"John!" Sherlock called from where he was seated at his microscope, "the dog needs walking."

"Wha-? No! Absolutely not!" John cried, throwing down his morning newspaper. "Absolutely not. I've been walking him since you decided to get him. You know the park is quite a long ways away!"

"Busy. Case."

"Tired. Not my turn."

"What's not, John?" Hamish asked, having just exited his room, arms full of newly-bought dog toys.

"I was just trying to explain to your father that, as I have walked the dog many times, it is only fair that he walk the dog now."

"Oh. 'Es. Tat make sense," Hamish concluded with an agreeable nod.

"No," Sherlock's voice rumbled in from the kitchen. "Case."

"Oh," Hamish stated once again. Abandoning his toys, the little boy toddled over to John, who had the puppy's little leash in hand. "How 'bouts 'tis, John," he compromised, holding onto the doctor's leg. "John walks ah puppy tuy-day and 'ten Daddy does uh-morrow?"

Smiling down at his little and kind-hearted flat mate, John fondly rolled his eyes. "Fine," he sighed playfully. "But this is the last time," the doctor added, shooting a glare in Sherlock's direction. "Want to come?"

There was a simultaneous response: "Yes!" and "No."

John rolled his eyes. "I wasn't talking to you Sherlock."

"Mmm," the detective grumbled in response, twirling the knobs on the microscope.

Rolling his eyes and with a bit more force than was necessary, John snatched the leash from where it had been discarded on the couch and then approached the little puppy.

"Here, John. I hold him still." Abandoning the doggy toys, Hamish hurried over to the excitable little puppy and attempted to hold him still. "Gadstone!" he gasped when the little animal attempted to jump into his arms. "No, Gadstone! We needs ah go for a walk!"

With a smile at his flustered little flat mate, John quickly hooked the leash into Gladstone's matching collar and then clicked his tongue, signalling it was time to go. The puppy bounded towards the stairs, pausing at the top of them; the little pup had not quite gotten the hang of them yet. Holding Hamish's fingers with one hand, the doctor scooped up the little puppy with the other and then toted both down the stairs.

 

 

Having arrived at the park, John spotted a close bench, situated right in the sunlight; perfect for a chillier day like this. Clicking his tongue so as to get Gladstone's attention, the doctor led the little puppy over to the bench, with Hamish trailing close behind.

Holding the leash by a few fingers, John allowed the little puppy to explore the grass around the bench and then took a seat.

"Oof! John, I needs help, 'ease," Hamish groaned as he tried—and failed—to hop his way onto the green bench.

"Of course." Laughing, John resituated the leash and then hoisted his little flat mate onto the bench next to him. "Good?"

"Yes," Hamish sighed, as if exhausted.

John watched fondly as the little boy smoothed out his small jeans, brushing a few particles of dirt away, and then fixated his gaze on Gladstone. After a few moments, the doctor tapped Hamish on the shoulder and then nodded to the dog. "Would you care to hold the leash?"

"Oh, yes 'ease!" Opening both palms toward the doctor, Hamish tensed his little fingers in preparation for the leash.

"There you go." John transferred the black leash to Hamish's own little hands.

"Oh! Is very heavy, John," the little boy sighed in amazement. "But Gadstone is so l'ttle, John."

"Well, he is very little now. But he's going to grow and get bigger, and when he does, we'll need a big enough leash to hold him. So we're just planning ahead, you see."

"Oh. Tat makes sense," Hamish agreed with a nod of his head. "Okay. I gots him."

"Yes you do. We'll wait here a little while longer and then we'll head back, yes?"

"Yes."

"Very good."

A hand draped lazily over the back of the bench, John sat, his much-smaller flat mate seated next to him. The doctor couldn't help but smile at the way Hamish's small little legs didn't even come close to reaching the ground below the bench.

The two sat in silence for several moments. It was soon broken by a question, "John?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Why Daddy not does like Gadstone?"

The doctor glanced fondly at the animal in question and then back at Hamish, who was gazing up at him with wide eyes. "Oh, I think he does. He just doesn't know it yet. You see, Hamish, I know this is rather difficult to understand now, but your father is a peculiar man; it's very hard to understand what he's thinking. And frankly, I think that's how he prefers it. Either way, the point I'm trying to make is that sometimes it may seem like your father thinks one thing when he's actually thinking quite the opposite." The doctor squinted his eyes. "Does that make much sense?"

A breath. "Um… No, John," Hamish answered earnestly.

"Right. Well… Oh! When your father was little, he actually had a dog, himself. Did you know that?"

"Really?"

"Really! His name was Redbeard. So he's got a soft spot in his heart somewhere for dogs. You should ask him about it sometime. Maybe you can get him to open up more than I can."

"Tanks you, John." Turning his attention back to Gladstone, Hamish took a big breath and then shouted, quite loudly, "Gaaaaaadstooooone! It time to gooooo!"

Wincing just slightly and ignoring the stares from passersby, John whistled, also calling the little pup over. "There's a good job. Go on, Hamish. Give him a pet." The little boy gleefully obliged.

 

 

By the time John returned to the flat, he was carrying both Hamish and Gladstone, with the puppy in his arms and Hamish on his back. Realizing the little boy had fallen asleep, John placed Gladstone on the floor, as he could go up the stairs quite well on his own, and then followed the eager puppy up to the flat. He was greeted by a pacing Sherlock. The detectgive paused briefly, glanced towards the doctor's legs and then frowned.

Knowing what his friend was wondering, John obligingly turned around.

"Ah," Sherlock mumbled in understand. He resumed his quick pacing. "Good walk, then."

"Yes. Sorry you missed it."

The detective shot his friend a disapproving glare.

"I'll take him up to his room."

"Yes."

After toting Hamish up to his room and tucking him in, John returned to Sherlock's pacing form and then took a seat in his own chair. "Good case, then?'

"Mmm."

"Good, good… Need any help?"

"Not at the moment. Could you please shut up? I need to think."

"No. By the way, Hamish thinks you don't like Gladstone."

A pause. Brows quirked in confusion, Sherlock's lips drew down to form an expression that asked, "Why would he think a thing like that?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock, maybe because you show virtually no interest in the poor thing, you refuse to take him for walks, and you've been so busy working this bloody case that you've barely left your microscope in the last seventy-two hours."

With a slow and careful blink, Sherlock lowered his hands from his lips. "I see," he rumbled, taking a seat in his own chair. "I must admit I… it had not occurred to me that perhaps Hamish thought I was neglecting the dog."

"Yes, perhaps a good place to start would be to refer to the animal by its name," John suggested with a raised brow.

"Yes…"

There was a sudden loud chirping. Realizing it was his phone, John pulled the device out and then squinted at the message. A sigh.

"Called in?" Sherlock asked with a raised brow.

"Yep," John sighed, tucking the mobile back in his pocket. "Overflow of patients, too many staff out sick. I'll be back, then. Probably late."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Very well. I'll... take care of the dog, then." Upon receiving a distinct glare from his flat mate, Sherlock corrected with a sigh, "I'll take care of Gladstone."

"Very nice." Coat in hand, John made to step towards the door, but then paused. Sticking his head back through the door, the doctor added," By the way, just so you know in case it comes up, I did mention Redbeard to Hamish earlier today."

"You what?" Sherlock whispered, the word flying off his tongue as he spun to face the doctor.

Taken aback by the detective's abrupt response, John frowned. "I told Hamish… that you had a dog once before." The doctor hesitated. "Is that a problem?"

Sherlock hastened towards the doctor. "How on earth did you—" A sigh. "Mycroft."

"Yep."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock began to knead several fingers into his temple. "That was not his secret to tell," the detective murmured, voice just a low rumble.

Eyeing his friend, John took a step back into the flat. "It's not a secret, Sherlock. It's not some great undercover mystery you've got to keep to yourself. You had a pet once and you cared about him. It's not something to be ashamed of, it's—"

"Irrelevant."

"Human, Sherlock. It's human to get attached, to get emotional. It's human to have feelings. I don't understand why you're so opposed to these human experiences."

"Because, John, that is when people get hurt, when they make mistakes. Human nature, or rather my opposition to it, is the reason I'm able to function as I do; it is one of many tools at my disposal that makes me subjective in my investigations. The moment I let human nature take over is the moment I lose a case; the moment a murder gets away; the moment another innocent is murdered. And that is unacceptable." Sherlock's steel blue gaze bore into the doctor's own. "That, John, is why I am so opposed to human experiences."

Holding his friend's gaze, John took a breath and then delivered a calm response, "Well, thank goodness you've found enough humanity in your heart for Hamish."

With a saddened smile, John quirked his lips down and then disappeared through the door.

After waiting a few moments in the silence that now filled the flat, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. "Damn it," he muttered, kneading several fingers into his temple. The detective mentally scolded himself; he should have known John would never understand his opposition to human nature. I also probably should not have been as defensive about Redbeard as I was. Even at the thought of the beloved pet's name, Sherlock felt a wave of both calm and sadness wash over him. The detective shook away the feeling. It is exactly those emotions and feelings that cloud judgement.

Sherlock's scolding was interrupted, however, by a small pawing by his feet. Fingers still tense against his skin, the detective glanced down and found Gladstone panting up at him, two small paws propping the little puppy up.

Sherlock frowned as he stared at the tiny animal. "Oh, fine." Rolling his eyes, the detective obliged the little puppy's persistent pawing. Wrapping his two large hands around the white puppy's torso, Sherlock lifted, rather surprised at how light the animal was.

Now face to face with excitable pup, Sherlock squinted as he sized the animal up. "Well, you're quite a small little thing, aren't you?" In response, Gladstone stretched his small body as far as his spine would allow him in a desperate and futile attempt to lick the detective's face.

"Ah, ah. No. No licking." Sherlock raised a cautionary brow, as if Gladstone would understand. Never one to be discouraged, however, the little puppy merely settled for the next best thing: Sherlock's fingers.

Lips quirking into a disdainful frown, Sherlock placed the puppy back on the ground. "Well, that's quite enough of that, thank you." With long and precise strides, the detective headed back into the kitchen and once again took a seat at his microscope; he was determined to crack this case by the end of the hour. With one foot on the bottom of the stool and the other resting against the floor, Sherlock soon forgot about Gladstone.

Still persistent, Gladstone tumbled his way over the kitchen (the little puppy had not quite gotten the hang of his own legs yet, it seemed). With a small whine, Gladstone nuzzled his nose against the foot Sherlock had set on the ground. When this went unnoticed, the little puppy continued his whining, but began to paw at the detective's trousers.

Noticing the sensation, Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then glared down at Gladstone. "What? What on earth could you possibly..." Big, black, and pleading eyes stared back at him, and suddenly Sherlock was no longer looking at little Gladstone, but he was looking at his own puppy—at Redbeard.

Lips parted just slightly, the detective stared down at the little animal, his gaze softening with each passing moment. As the image of Redbeard slowly transformed back into Gladstone, Sherlock inhaled. "Very well, then." Reaching down, the detective pulled Gladstone onto his lap. "But you'd better not make a fuss."

As if to say don't worry, I won't, Gladstone spun himself in an wobbly circle (Sherlock's thighs were not the sturdiest ground, after all) and then plopped himself down on the detective's legs.

With tentative fingers and a cautious gaze, Sherlock ran several slender fingers over Gladstone's little back. The puppy responded by closing his eyes and promptly falling asleep. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle when the little thing started to snore, the sound high and light. "I suppose you won't be too horridly unbearable. Well, not all of the time, anyway... There's a good boy." Removing his hand from where it had been resting atop Gladstone's back, Sherlock carefully resumed his position at the microscope. "Very good boy, Gladstone."


End file.
